


Only If For A Night

by Pearls1975



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearls1975/pseuds/Pearls1975
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist."  -Charles Bauldaire</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize right now for the characters being OOC, I don't have a beta-reader, and I needed to get this out of my head and into the computer and onto the internet before my head exploded. I'm not sure how long this is going to be.
> 
> Comments and criticisms are always welcome, especially if they are constructive.

"Sherlock?" Molly Hooper pressed her ear against her basement door. She heard gunshots not even a minute ago and came running down her stairs to check on her temporary house mate.

"Sherlock," she repeated, her voice raised. "Sherlock answer me! Are you okay?"

"Fine," came the muffled response. "I'm fine, Molly."

"But I heard gun-"

"I'm fine!" She heard the anger in his voice. "Now just walk away!"

Molly sucked in air. Sherlock had been living in her basement for five months and she still wasn't used to this dark side of his personality. This was the second time he had shot a gun in her basement and she wasn't going to have it destroyed by this man.

It was an impulse decision to let herself into the basement. Sherlock wasn't completely unaware of the two-way lock that she had put on the door; he used the outside entrance most of the time.

Sherlock hadn't heard her turn the key in the lock, he was too involved in his own depressing thoughts. So when she entered the room, an instinct kicked in and he grabbed Molly and put her in a sleeper hold. She tried to kick at him and she hit him with her balled fists.

"Sherlock..." her voice came out in a strangled whisper but it was enough for him to let her go. Molly dropped like a rag doll to the floor, coughing and trying to catch her breath.

"Molly," Sherlock stared at her incredulously. Her features were highlighted in a sliver of moonlight that was streaming into the small basement window. She stared back at him, wide-eyed. "I thought I told you to walk away?"

"Sh-Sherlock," Molly coughed before going on. "I heard gunshots, I was worried."

"Well, I'm fine." He paced and took a deep breath, then knelt next to her as he put the safety on the gun and set it down. He grabbed her wrist and Molly was certain he would feel an elevated pulse as he inspected her neck. "You are going to be fine, as well."

Sherlock stood and turned on the lamp on the side table next to the couch and walked back to Molly who was staring at the gun. His hand came into focus as he grabbed the gun and sat it on the cabinet next to them. Molly looked up at Sherlock and noted that he was dressed in the same thing she saw him in three days ago when she made them lunch. His blonde tresses were still hard to get used too. She frowned and made another noise of protest when Sherlock tipped her head to look at her neck.

"You are going to have a little bruising, but you will be fine..." His voice faded and Molly locked her gaze on his mysterious grey eyes. She could see the conflict there. "I am sorry Molly Hooper. I hope you can forgive me." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. A small smile touched his lips as he leaned back and watched her flush.

Molly turned away from his scrutinizing gaze.

"O-Of course I forgive you, Sherlock," She said as she stood and brushed herself off. "I just wish you would tell me why you are shooting at the walls of my basement."

Sherlock hung his head in defeat. He hated telling people the motives behind his actions. Sometimes he didn't even know and the feeling he had been experiencing since he faked his death five months ago was so confusing, it was killing him that he couldn't figure it out.

"I...went to see him. A couple evenings ago," He said as he stood and walked over to the couch. Molly crossed her arms as she watched him drape his long limbs over the small couch. "I only got a glance before they started shooting."

"They!"

"I was testing to make sure Mori-...to make sure HE made good on his threats." Sherlock found that it was better not to mention his name too often. Just like that damned woman...

Molly's eyes went wide. "Sherlock, you could have been killed!"

"I had to see him. I had to see... John." Sherlock also hated that he couldn't say John's name without chocking up inside. He turned over, his back facing Molly. She stepped over to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. She felt him tense up, but he didn't shrug her off as he continued.

"I put him in danger and the worst part," he suddenly turned back over. "John is still living at the flat. I would have thought he would move. I was hoping he would move. Mori- … HE still has people watching the flat! Stupid sentimental idiot."

"Sherlock!"

"Argh!" Was all Sherlock said as he rolled over again.

Molly sighed audibly.

"John misses you, a lot. You aren't the only one that's confused."

Sherlock only grunted his response.

Molly clenched her jaw. "Well, you need to re-colour your hair. And you should probably get rid of that coat-"

"I will NOT!" Sherlock was sitting up faster than Molly could comprehend.

"Sherlock, do you realize how recognizable that coat is? And that scarf? It's almost as if you were wearing that silly hat that someone gave you."

"Deerstalker." Sherlock mumbled as a plan was forming in his head.

"What?"

"Deerstalker, it's called a Deerstalker and Molly Hooper," Sherlock stood and clapped his hands on her shoulders. Even after working with him for five years, she still wasn't used to his mood swings. "You are a genius!" Then he kissed her on her forehead and he disappeared into his bathroom. Molly could hear him rummaging and he came out with a box of hair color in his hands. "Now do you have any scissors?"

Molly gasped.

"You are right, I need to get rid of any thing that identifies the old Sherlock. I need to be a new person. Why hadn't I thought of this before? I'm slipping..."

"But, I've only cut my little brothers hair -"

"I have to trust you, Molly, no one else can cut it, right?"

Molly blinked at him. She wondered if those words had as much impact on him as they did on herself. Probably not, she thought as she nodded and walked up the stairs to grab the scissors she kept for emergency trims. Her mind wandered to the couple times that her and Lestrade and John had gone to the pub to talk about life and each other. Molly cringed as she thought of how hard John had to pretend to be happy. They had tried to avoid the topic of one Sherlock Holmes, but John had brought him up in their second outing. Molly had to swallow back her tears as she remembered watching the struggle on Johns face as he fought back tears.

"Sherlock," Molly said as she entered the basement a minute later. "Are you sure you want to do this so soon? I don't think John will be ready to see you..."

"Of course I'm sure." Sherlock gave her that small smile of his and sat down on a chair that he had brought down from Molly's dining room and handed her a towel. Molly threw it over his shoulders and tied it loosely around his neck, fighting the urge to give him a taste of what he did to her earlier.

"I just don't think you will get the reception that you want." Molly said as she hovered with the scissors over his soft thick curls. She ran her hands through his hair. It would probably be the opportunity she would have to do so and it was as soft and as thick as she imagined.

"Molly?" Sherlock's deep voice broke into her reverie.

"Sorry," she cleared her throat and shifted her feet. "So, how am I cutting this?"

Sherlock instructed her as she watched his long graceful hands gesture around his head.

"What did you mean by not getting the reception that I want?" Sherlock asked as Molly started cutting.

"Well, what kind of reception are you imagining?"

"He'll be shocked, angry. He might hit me, then I'll explain everything and he'll want to help."

Molly chuckled despite herself. "Oh, he'll hit you alright, but I don't think he'll be too accepting that you're alive. He really misses you, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed.

'I think I miss him too...'

XXX

Three days later, Molly was standing in her basement helping Sherlock with the clothes she bought him.

"Molly, this looks like what every young bloke is wearing these days. How is this American?" As he stood in front of the full length mirror that Molly brought down, Sherlock adjusted the black leather jacket he was wearing over a black vest and a dark green tee shirt. He could count on one hand how many times he had ever worn jeans in his lifetime, and now he was remembering why he rarely, if ever, wore them.

"This," Molly popped a baseball cap on his head. "Will top it off nicely."

"Oh no," Sherlock took it off immediately and looked at her sternly in the mirror. "I am not wearing a cap."

Molly giggled and he turned to face her.

"What?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I can't take you seriously with that blonde hair!" She said between giggles.

He turned back to the mirror and ran his hand through his short hair. He found himself looking in the mirror more often than not with the new cut and color, more out of surprise than anything else. He didn't look like himself, which basically was the point.

"Put the cap on Sherlock. It'll separate you from all of the other young blokes."

Sherlock sighed and placed the cap on his head and groaned. Molly adjusted it for him.

" 'Boston Red Sox'... " Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

"They are an American Baseball team. Better than announcing you're a Yankee." Molly scrutinized him as she tapped her chin thoughtfully as he narrowed his eyes at her briefly. "Yeah, I don't think John or Greg are going to recognize you. Okay, I'm going to finish getting ready."

Molly left Sherlock alone in the basement to look at himself. He hated that he had to disguise himself now. He hated that he let a madman win.

'All lives end...All hearts are broken...Caring is not an advantage...Sherlock...'

Mycroft's voice echoed in his head and he clenched his fists and closed his eyes.

'...Are you really so obvious? … The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; give him a puzzle and watch him dance...'

'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side...'

Sherlock suddenly found himself facing a broken mirror and a bloody fist. He was breathless and was grateful that Molly had already left the house. He cleaned himself up and left the house.

XXX

When he arrived at the Pub an hour later, it was crowded and loud. As Sherlock walked slowly through the pub looking for three particular people, he found that the only people that gave him a second glance were older women and jocks and gay men. He smirked despite himself. He read this crowd like a book and was bored in five minutes. Until he heard Molly's nervous laugh and looked in that direction. He saw Molly and Lestrade on one side of a booth and John's profile on the other as he made his way to a spot at the bar where he could watch the booth. He observed Molly smiling and laughing along with Lestr-...wait...was she … flirting with him? The way she touched shoulders with him whenever he made a joke, and Sherlock hadn't noticed when she left the basement but was she wearing lipstick?

What piqued Sherlock's interest even more, however, was John. He hardly moved, hardly smiled, he just sat and drank, a lot. John was a casual drinker. This, was not casual.

Molly's wave caught Sherlock's eye and he waved back. It felt weird, a relaxed wave and a smile. He watched as Lestrade moved so Molly could get out of the booth, and Lestrade squinted at him. Then John turned in his seat. It took all of Sherlock's inner strength to not smile and acknowledge John like he usually would. He clenched his jaw and cut his eyes to Molly and smiled what felt like the smile for an old friend.

Molly approached him with her usual nervousness.

"Hi," she said as she looked at her shoes and played with the drink straw in her hands. "Did they see you? Did they recognize you?"

"So far I've seen no sign of acknowledgement from either men. Does John usually drink this much?" Sherlock cut his eyes to the booth just as John was turning back around.

"I don't know," Molly glanced over her shoulder at the booth and Sherlock noticed a passing look between her and Lestrade. He narrowed his eyes at the two and knew it wouldn't be long for these two. He saw John glance over his shoulder and Molly turned back to Sherlock who held John's gaze longer than he should have. John squinted his eyes and tried to get a good look at Sherlock who looked back at Molly.

"I should get going," he leaned over and hugged Molly. "John is looking too hard."

"Oh, okay," Molly said then parted and brought out her phone. "We should pretend to be exchanging numbers. I told them you were an old friend of mine."

"Won't Lestrade be jealous?" Sherlock brought his phone out and looked over at the booth again. John and Lestrade seemed to be engaged in a deep conversation.

Molly looked up at Sherlock and shuffled her feet and stuttered. "N-No, why would he be jealous? That's just silly! Course he wouldn't be jealous, he's married."

"Uh-huh," was all Sherlock said as Molly's lip trembled. "Oh don't do that, Molly, it's obvious you two like each other. Besides, his wife is going to leave him for that P.E. Teacher anyway."

Sherlock stood and put his phone in his pocket and glanced up at the booth again. Lestrade was looking in their direction and John was finishing his pint. He looked back down at Molly whose jaw was clenched.

She drew in a deep breath and hugged Sherlock for show and whispered in his ear: "You're lucky I like you too much Sherlock. You wouldn't have a basement to hide out in."

Molly was pretty sure it was the alcohol talking. She would never have the courage to say such a thing otherwise. She smiled to herself as she let go of Sherlock and walked away.

Sherlock could only watch Molly walk away. He hoped it wasn't the last time.


	2. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and started to walk away, when his foot kicked something. Looking down, he saw John's cane laying on the brick.
> 
> 'Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them...'
> 
> Suddenly, everything came into bright focus as he bent and grabbed the cane. He walked away, giggling like a madman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was named after that ever present quote that is in fan-vids and fan-fiction.
> 
> Again, I have no beta-reader, so if you see any mistakes or have any comments or concerns, let me know, constructively of course!

Sherlock wasn't completely comfortable in the new clothes that Molly had bought for him, but he was getting used to them. It was, however, nice to not be followed; not to have to look over his shoulder every five minutes. So, as he stood waiting in line for a newly acquired overpriced caffeine addiction (thanks to Molly), he found himself looking over the patrons that were sitting, reading their morning papers, or on their laptops, tapping away. He glanced behind him, again out of habit, and spotted a woman in a very large red hat, and even larger red sunglasses. Sherlock didn't mean to, but he had taken a second glance. There was something about this woman that was very familiar. She was on her phone, chatting in a quiet tone, and five patrons behind Sherlock; enough time, he deduced, to pay for and grab his coffee and sit close and observe.

Her hair was tucked into her hat, which covered most of her face. Her gestures were minimal, but her hands were manicured and she wore a silver bracelet and a silver band, but not on her left hand. Sherlock wasn't sitting close enough to hear what she was saying and she left in the opposite direction after she paid for her coffee.

He couldn't get the familiarity of the woman out of his head and when he spotted her a couple days later at the same coffee place, he immediately got in line. She had the same damned hat on and she was on her phone, again. Sherlock noted that her nail polish was a different color.

Sherlock visited the coffee stand over the weekend, but found that she didn't visit on neither Saturday nor Sunday. Thursday and Friday had been a bust as well, and as much as Sherlock hated coincidences, he was starting to think that this was one of them.

When Monday morning came around, Sherlock found himself in que, unconsciously looking for the woman. The people at the head of the line were having a hard time deciding and Sherlock barely managed to contain an audible sigh. This over-priced coffee addiction had brought him down to only two patches. He rubbed his arm where they were placed. He shifted his feet and looked around again, losing his thoughts in the book of newspaper clippings that Molly had 'procured' from the flat, a couple days ago. Once a month Molly visited John at 221 B Baker street as a social call, and to secretly take some personal items that Sherlock had requested. The book of newspaper clippings was not one of the items, but for some reason it had caught Molly's eye. How she got it out without John knowing was bothering Sherlock to no end. But they had only seen each other for a few seconds this morning as Molly was leaving for work.

His reverie was interrupted by a harsh 'Sir?' and a small shove. He glared at the patron behind him, but forgot he was wearing sunglasses, something he rarely did, but he was having fun with his disguises.

"Sir, your usual?" The barista asked with her usual chirpiness when Sherlock reached the head of the que. He nodded, and after gathering his change and coffee and stepping aside, he glanced around. There she was, at the end of the que, and this time no hat!

Sherlock found a table close by and sat down, pretending to read the newspaper that had been left there. He kept his head dipped, but he knew that no one could see his eyes and he looked hard at the woman.

Dirty dishwater blonde hair, well kept.

Very little make-up.

Fairly attractive.

And the profile of the nose – that nose!

It was similar to John's. Sherlock had caught himself staring at it more than once. Not that John had a big nose, but it was a unique nose.

"Listen, mum," the female voice carried over Sherlock's thoughts. "John and I are going to have lunch later so don't worry your pretty little head."

Sherlock's heart stopped at the mention of John's name. The chances that this random woman that Sherlock had stalked because she looked familiar, was talking about John Watson, were slim to none. In fact, Sherlock became dizzy thinking of the math behind that kind of coincidence.

"Of course I've been to the meeting," her hoarse voice broke into his thoughts.

Suddenly, a plan formed in Sherlock's head that was so crystal clear he had to stop himself from shouting out how brilliant it was. The less attention on him the better

He grabbed his coffee and walked purposefully towards the woman.

"'Scuse me miss," Sherlock said in his best American accent as he placed the sunglasses on top of his head. "May I buy your coffee this morning?"

She glanced at him and rolled her eyes. They were a touch darker than John's he noted as she went back to her conversation.

"Pardon me," Sherlock put on his best smile. "But I couldn't help but notice you look a bit like an old classmate I studied with at St. Barts, feminine version of course!" He gestured and she made a dismissive sound. Sherlock wasn't going to be waved off that easily. "Er, John Watson was his name..."

She looked at him with a look of cautious contempt. "You probably stole that from the papers! You're probably a paparazzi trying to -"

"No, miss, John and I were good buddies and he had mentioned a sibling, a Harry I believe -"

"Mum, I'll call you back," she took the phone from her ear and hit the end button and dropped it into a pocket in her purse. She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. "Only two people know that nickname, and I know John doesn't mention me to the paparazzi." She paused and looked him up and down. "If you can carry a conversation for more than five minutes, you have my undivided attention for a half an hour. If you can keep me interested in that half an hour, you can have my number. You Americans can be cute, but dumb."

"Um, thanks," Sherlock was taken aback by her sharp tongue and even sharper accent; it was a tad rougher than John's.

"The largest, blackest coffee you have," she glanced at Sherlock and gestured with her thumb. "And this Yank is paying for it."

After paying for and gathering her coffee she gestured to a table that was close, but Sherlock guided her to a table away from the crowd. She hesitated, but he smiled and pleaded. Sighing, Harry turned and walked to the table as Sherlock pulled out a chair for her. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Well, glad to see that chivalry isn't dead in the States." She said as she took her phone out of her purse and checked it, then set it on the table. Taking the top off her coffee, she blew on it and made a gesture to Sherlock for him to begin.

"Harry, Harriet Watson," He dropped the American accent. "I am Sherlock Holmes. Your brother, John Watson was my companion and flat-"

Harry interrupted him as she spit out her coffee and looked at him in wide-eyed amazement. He could see the conflict in her face as she opened, then closed, then opened her mouth.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"Shh, yes, I am."

She looked at him skeptically.

Sherlock took the sunglasses off his head and ruffled what was left of his hair. Then he turned up his collar and sucked in his cheeks and turned his head so his profile was facing her.

"Bloody hell!" She said after staring at him for a beat. He put himself back together, and took a drink of his coffee as he glanced around. No one had taken an interest in them.

Then, completely out of the blue, she smacked him on the arm.

"Do you realize how much grief and pain you've caused my brother? Do you realize I almost had to call a suicide watch on him? Do you realize how -"

"Yes, yes, please keep your voice down, I can explain-"

"Well, you've passed your five minutes, and I'm still here." She glared at him over her coffee. "John and I may not get along, but he is my only brother, and I care about family. Start explaining."

Sherlock explained how he faked his death and how John's life, and others were in danger and he had to lie low until the right time.

"I would really like to talk with him," Sherlock concluded. "I need to explain to him what is going on, so that he can keep safe."

Harry was listening open-mouthed. After a beat, she said, "Why don't you just go and see him yourself. With all this disguise, he should be safe-"

"No, the flat is wired and cameras are hidden every where."

"What? My brother is being-"

"Shhh... yes, and if you can get him out to lunch today, maybe you can convince him to stay in other accommodations, or if you let me know where you are having lunch, I can join you guys and help you convince him."

Harry opened her mouth to answer, when her phone went off.

"Huh, speak of the devil." She said as she picked it up. " 'Allo John."

Sherlock held his breath. He could only hear an occasional word that John said.

"Yes, I think mum would like us to have lunch." She paused and nodded and rolled her eyes. "God yes, Johnny, I went to my meeting...of course...okay...hey, hold on, I ran into an old friend of yours-"

Sherlock gestured and shook his head wildly.

"Yeah, he says he used to study with you at St. Barts...Yes...Stamford...Oh, well, he wants to see you, can he meet us for lunch?"

Sherlock relaxed and let out a long breath.

"Okay...yeah one sounds fine...okay... I have some shopping to do in Piccadilly, should we meet there? … No not another addiction...I'm a girl, i'm going to shop! Alright! One at Piccadilly...Shut up John! Bye."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her.

"Johnny and I have always argued," Harry sighed as she dropped her phone in her purse. "But God if I don't love my older brother." Her eyes cut to Sherlock. "That's why I'm helping you help him. You're lucky I don't kick you in the balls and leave you here. I'm sure it would be the same state that you left John in."

Sherlock swallowed hard and crossed his legs. "Thank you, Harriet. I appreciate that you didn't kick me."

"I'm going to tell you that you might not receive the open armed reception like you want."

Sherlock winced slightly. "Someone else told me that as well, but I must tell him about the danger he's in."

"Can't that Investigator or police man or whomever he is, tell John?"

"No," Sherlock looked down at his coffee. "No, Lestrade's in trouble as well."

Harry pursed her lips and sighed.

"If you aren't there at one, I will find you and I will make sure some sort of pain is put upon you." She paused and took a drink of her coffee and her demeanor changed. "Now, if you will excuse me Mr. Holmes, I have to go."

Sherlock watched her as she gathered her purse and coffee and walked off. Harriet was suddenly an enigma to Sherlock and he was looking forward to their lunch meeting for more reasons than one.

XXX

John was never a fan of big crowds and Piccadilly was a place he naturally avoided. Today's lunch date, however was important to him and he knew his sister was making strides to try to better her life if she was willing to have lunch with him. The AA meetings were the first steps and she had been going for three weeks. He didn't always get along with Harriet, but he certainly loved her.

He sat on the fountain near some tourists that were taking pictures. He watched as their children ran around the square, balloons in their little hands. John smiled a little, wondering what it must be like, coming to London and experiencing the city for the first time. He thought about the cabs he used to take with Sherlock and the way he interpreted the city made John feel like a little kid...

"What the hell are you smiling at?" His sisters voice broke his reverie.

"Always the charming one, weren't you Harry?" He grabbed his cane and stood and held out his hand.

"Oh stop, Johnny." Harriet wrapped her arms around her brother and he was dumbstruck. "We're siblings, we don't shake hands."

"Okay, so is mum around, watching us?" He said as he held her at arms length and looked around.

She smacked him playfully, then held out her hands. "You tired old bloke! I'm serious about this."

John looked at them. For the first time in a long time, they were steady. "Harry...I dunno what to say..."

"How 'bout congratulations, for starters?"

"Congratulations sister," it was John's turn to hug his sister and she returned it wholeheartedly. "Please don't let me down."

"I promise, I won't," she replied. "As long as you keep your head high."

"I'm trying. I just take it day by day," he said as they parted.

Harry shook her head at him. "John, you look so tired."

"That's funny, 'cause I've been sleeping better."

Harry looped her arm through John's and they started walking toward the Costa Coffee shop. After ordering and settling on eating out in the square, they fell into comfortable banter.

Halfway through, Harry spotted Sherlock and she waved him over.

"Who's that?" John asked when he turned back to Harry.

She smiled mysteriously. "An old friend of yours."

John turned and looked at the man approaching them. There was an air of familiarity about him, but John couldn't place it.

"Hello Harry," Sherlock said in his American accent. "It's good to see you again." Hello John." He held his hand out to John.

"It's very good to see you again," Harry said. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to come."

"Hello John." He held his hand out to John.

"I-I'm sorry," John said as he glanced at Harry, then back up at the mysterious man standing in front of him. "Have we...have we met before?"

Sherlock knelt in front of them as he whispered, "John Watson, it's Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock watched as several emotions crossed his friends face.

"N-no, he's dead...you're supposed to be dead...I-"

"John, I'm sorry we have to meet again this way," Sherlock interrupted.

"Is this a sick joke?" John looked back and forth at Harry and Sherlock. Sherlock took off his sunglasses and ruffled his hair, then turned up his collar.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock clucked his tongue and winked.

John stopped breathing. In fact the whole world stopped for just that moment and he stared at the man kneeling in front of him, open-mouthed.

"John, you okay?" Harry rested her hand gently on John's shoulder.

He sucked in some air.

"You died...I watched..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Do you know...of course you don't know. You have no heart." John stood suddenly and walked off, without his cane.

"John!" Harry called and started after him. But Sherlock stopped her.

"No, he needs time..."

"I think we are quite done here!" Harry said sternly.

"Here is my number, please, he needs to know -"

"Fine!" Her eyes turned cold, just like John's would when he was unhappy with something that Sherlock did or said. "I told you that there wouldn't be a grand reception. I think it would be best if you left him alone for a while."

Sherlock watched as Harry ran after John, who had disappeared into the crowd.

'Caring is a disadvantage...Sherlock.'

Sherlock balled his fists and clenched his jaw as Mycroft's voice floated through the white noise in his head.

'Alone is what I have. Alone is what protects me.'

Thunder broke through his thoughts, and suddenly everything became quite. He opened his eyes and looked up. The sun was hidden by a thick layer of white clouds that were rapidly turning a dark gray. More thunder rumbled through the clouds again and Sherlock turned his attention to the crowd milling around the square, going about their meaningless lives.

'You're ordinary...you're on the side of the angles...'

Sherlock tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and started to walk away, when his foot kicked something. Looking down, he saw John's cane laying on the brick.

'Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them...'

Suddenly, everything came into bright focus as he bent and grabbed the cane. He walked away, giggling like a madman.


	3. Shadows Over Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'John, you must get out of the flat. You are being watched, in more ways than one.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a lot of fun to write so far and I'm glad everyone is enjoying it. Please be patient, Moran will make his appearance shortly...or will he?
> 
> I do not have a beta-reader, so please, any comments and/or concerns are welcome, as long as they are constructive!

"Johnny," John winced as he listened to the forth message that Harry had left on his cell. "Please call me, let me know you're okay."

John sighed. He didn't mean to run off like that, but he had no choice. Seeing that man's face brought back visions that he was trying to forget and he knew he was going to have nightmares that night as well. He thought about moving out of the flat, especially after certain things turned up missing; and after being shot at, he thought about it a lot. He was thinking about it now as he stared into the fireplace. It had turned cold that evening and John had started a small fire. He found himself starting a fire more times than not.

He sighed again and dialed his sisters number.

"Yes, Harry, I'm fine." John said after Harry calmed down.

"Good! I was sick to death with worry. I almost called mum."

"Oh God, why would you do that?" John held the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache forming.

"Because I needed some one to talk to!"

"Well, you must have been desperate then."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want a repeat of what happened two months a-"

"Harry!" John yelled as he stood. He reached for his cane and felt nothing where it should have been. "That will not be mentioned again!" He paused and looked around. "Do you have my cane?"

"No, why would I have your cane?"

"John, are you okay?" Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. "I heard you yelling."

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson," John nodded at the woman. "I'm talking to my sister."

"Oh, okay hon," Mrs. Hudson said as she headed towards the kitchen. "I'll just make some tea for you, help calm your nerves."

"Johnny!" Harry's voice carried and John had to hold the phone away from his ear. "Are you still there?"

"Yes Harry!" John took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom. "I am still here. Somehow, I am still here."

"What? What did you say?"

"Nothing," John took out the pain and sleeping pills he started taking after...the fall. He hated that he had become dependent on them, but he told himself that it was only temporary. "Listen, Harry if you see my cane, will you bring it to me?"

"Yes, but I think you left it at Piccadilly," Harry started and John stopped listening when he heard the bell to the flat ringing.

"Harry, I gotta go," John hung up as he hobbled down the stairs to the front foyer. His heart was pounding in his ears. There was enough light shining through the door to see a silhouette that did not look like Sherlock's. He blew out a sigh of relief and opened the door, only to see someone vaguely familiar standing on the front step with his cane. John swallowed hard. Why did he have a crazy sense of de ja vu all of a sudden?

"We need to stop meeting like this." The man smiled brightly as he handed John the cane. "An old friend told me that you would probably be needing this."

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson gave John a start. "That's your cane. Why does this nice gentleman have it?"

"Evenin' ma'am." The man nodded and Mrs. Hudson smiled her most charming smile.

"Um...thanks," John paused, then asked. "Aren't you the waiter from the Tapas restaurant on North Umberland?"

"Huh," Was all that John got out as he looked down at his cane and smiled a half-smile.

The man nodded, then dug in his jacket pocket. "Oh, here, he also said to give you this."

"What is it?" John's brow furrowed as the man handed him a plain white envelope.

"I dunno, I try not to pry into others business."

"You should come in out of the chill. I'm just putting on tea." Mrs. Hudson said.

"Thank you ma'am, but I should be goin'," He gestured to John and the cane. "Take care of that and yourself." The man started to walk down the stairs.

"Wait," John stepped forward. "Did that old friend have blonde hair?"

The man turned at the bottom of the stairs and winked, then disappeared down the street.

"John, why did that lovely man have your cane?" Mrs. Hudson asked after she shut the door and they were starting up the stairs.

"Long story, Mrs. Hudson, long story." John stared at the white envelope as Mrs. Hudson made a noise of understanding and went back into the kitchen.

John sat in his chair and propped his cane against the side table. He paused before he opened the envelope and held it up to his nose. Sherlock had a distinguishable scent, mostly of chemicals, but he had another scent that he carried with him, and John never knew what it was until he went into Sherlock's toilet out of pure curiosity, he had told himself. He found the usual stuff; shaving crème, razor, toothbrush and paste, deodorant (that was part of the scent, but not all) and when John opened the medicine cabinet, he found five tiny vials four of which were marked with different scents- one patchouli, another a musk, another a vibrant tropical scent that John had only smelled once on Sherlock, another a scent that was very high-end. But the vial that was unmarked; the one that was practically empty, that was the scent that was Sherlock, and it was just as much of a mystery as Sherlock was. The vials were also the first things that went missing, except for the unmarked one.

So when John smelled that particular scent on the envelope, the hairs on John's neck rose and his heart beat a little faster. He opened the envelope and brought out a light blue piece of paper that had been folded length wise. John unfolded the note and immediately dropped it in his lap. Sherlock's distinguishable loopy-loo handwriting was on the note. He chewed his bottom lip and bounced his knee, a habit he had since he was little.

"Here is your tea, love," Mrs. Hudson said as she set the tray down and glanced over at John. "What's the matter John? You look like you've just seen a ghost!"

John took a deep breath and crumpled the paper. No need to upset Mrs. Hudson as well.

"It's … ah, nothing Mrs. Hudson." He looked over at the older woman and gave her a smile, as he grabbed one of the cups of tea.

"Mmm-hmm..." was all she said as she sipped her tea.

XXX

Later that evening, John sat on the edge of his bed, staring out at the cold, rainy evening. The note lay in his lap, un-crumpled and read. He hadn't felt so confused and so alone since the evening of Sherlock's fall. But this time something pulled at his heart, something told him that the note was written recently, and not before his death.

'John, you must get out of the flat. You are being watched, in more ways than one.'

The last sentence brought a chill down his spine. He knew the feeling of being watched; your every step analyzed, your every move scrutinized. It was the way he felt on the battlefield every time he had a patient on the table. Like someone was watching over his shoulder, making sure that this kid lived to see another day of battle, or lived to witness his own discharge.

John drew in a deep breath and held his head in his hands. It had been a couple days since he had cried, and he gave into it, as he laid down and shoved his head into the pillow.

~XXX~

John woke the next morning with a sense of disorientation and his head in a drug induced fog. He groaned as he stretched to feel all his limbs and to make sure they were in working order. The light in the room was bright enough to make John's eyes hurt. When he opened them and he rubbed them, he found that he was laying on the couch. He shot up and immediately regretted that decision. His vision swirled and his head pounded. Holding one hand to the side of his head and the other gripping the edge of the couch, he thought of all of the possible scenarios of why and how he could have ended up on the couch. The only conclusion was that he had slept-walked his way down here, which frightened him. He could have fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. He had slept-walked only once before, but it was only to the tiny bathroom that was connected to his room.

Rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he heard a noise in the kitchen. He opened his mouth and tried to call out, thinking it might have been Mrs. Hudson, but his voice wouldn't work. It felt like someone stuffed a dirty sock in his mouth. He blinked a couple more times and heard more noises in the kitchen. He mustered up his strength and pushed himself laboriously off the couch. Stumbling a couple times, he made his way as quiet as he could to the desk and carefully opened the drawer. John picked up the gun that he kept there and tried his best not to drop it; it felt like a thousand pounds and his hands didn't seem to be working right. He drew in a deep breath and felt the blood suddenly rush through his whole body. Taking another deep breath seemed to clear his head, and he felt steady. He held the gun in front of him and walked to the kitchen.

"You there," John called after clearing his throat. "Who are you? State your business."

The man put his hands up in a surrender. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a dark blue baseball cap.

Turning around slowly, the man spoke: "John, it wouldn't be prudent to kill an old friend, now would it?"

John blinked several times and tried to swallowed. The man standing before him was the same man that claimed to be Sherlock Holmes at Piccadilly Circus yesterday.

"It's okay John," The man's voice sounded like Sherlock's voice. The way he moved, quiet and stealthy and fast, was exactly like Sherlock. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

The man started to take off his cap, but John came to his senses and pointed his gun square at the man's forehead.

"I'm just taking off the damned cap." The man moved his hand slowly and took off the cap, set it down, and ruffled his hair and exhaled. "Hate that damned thing. Why I have to wear it is beyond-"

"Who are you?" John interrupted the other as he took a couple steps forward. "State your business!"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock clucked his tongue and winked.

John swallowed visibly and his palms started to sweat.

"NO! You...he died! He's dead! I watched him fall-"

The other man had slowly made his way around the table and was now standing in front of John. He took a hold of Johns hands and the gun in both of his own hands. John hissed at how cold the others hands were and started to fight, but the other man was stronger.

"John...stop fighting." Sherlock's voice was low and smooth. "I need you to listen to me."

John was suddenly mesmerized by the voice and he stopped struggling. Sherlock took the gun out of John's hand, but never let go of the other hand.

"John, you are in danger. You must move out of this flat. You are being watched."

John only stared dumbfounded into Sherlock's gray eyes.

"You...you are alive..."

"Yes, but you won't be if you stay in this flat."

"But...why?"

"Moran...he's part of the spider's web..."

"What? Who is Moran?"

"Enough! I've already talked too much!"

Suddenly, the man in front of John morphed into Jim Moriarty and he had a death grip on John's hand.

"You think you're so clever..." Jim raised John's gun and put it to his mouth, then shot.

~XXX~

John woke in a tangle of blanket and sweat. He was breathing so hard he thought his lungs were going to explode. He looked around to get his bearings. He was sitting up on his bed and he leaned back, trying to get his breathing under control. John then sat forward and wiped the sweat off his face and groaned. Standing slowly to make sure his dizzy spells didn't return, he found his slippers and his robe and made his way downstairs. He paused at the bottom, and listened. Only the noises of Baker Street met his ears. He walked into the kitchen and started his morning tea.

As he let the water boil, John leaned against the counter and thought back on this last nightmare. There was a name...

"Moran," He said aloud. He dug in his robe pocket and brought out the piece of paper that brought on his nightmare last night. He found a pen and before he knew it, John had the whole dream written down, in surprisingly clear detail, even the end.

Why did Moriarty shoot himself in his dream?

His kettle sounded and he made his tea and sat and wrote out the possible meanings of the dream. He then showered and refreshed his tea, and checked the desk drawer. Pulling out the gun, he examined it. He wanted to be sure that he didn't sleepwalk and fire the gun in his sleep. Although, he was positive Mrs. Hudson would have been storming the castle if she had heard gunfire. He checked the chambers. Fully loaded. He flipped the safety on, and slipped it in the inside pocket of his jacket. He was sure he wasn't going to need it, but after the events of the past couple weeks, he wasn't sure what was going to happen.

John took one final stroll around the flat, made sure everything was turned off. A minute later he was trotting down his front stairs and dialing Greg Lestrade's number.

"Oh good, you are awake." John said as he hailed a cab.

"I- barely...it's 7:30 in the morning...on Saturday, John," Greg's voice sounded like he had had a round with a bottle of bourbon and a cigar. "I hope this is important."

"It is," John said as he climbed into a cab and gave them Greg's address. "I'm coming over, if you don't mind."

"Yeah..." the other paused. "Wait...No, you'll have to meet me outside the Coffee nook."

John rattled off the Coffee Nook address to the cabbie, then continued to his friend: "The Coffee Nook is no where near your place? Why there?"

"It...It's a long story. I'll tell you when you get there."

Thirty minutes later John and Greg were at a small booth in the back of the cafe. It had started raining on John's cab ride to the Nook.

"Looks like we both have stories to tell." John said after observing Greg's five o'clock shadow and bags under his eyes.

"Yeah," Greg said, avoiding John's scrutinizing gaze and circling the rim of his cup with his finger. "I guess. Like a couple of school girls gossiping."

Greg took a drink of his coffee and set it down a little harder than he meant to.

John raised his eyebrows.

"Well, I consider you a good man and a good friend. If you need to talk about something..." John chuckled. "God knows I've rattled off to you a million times."

Greg smirked. "S'alright, I know...it's been hard. I still expect the bastard to walk through my doors demanding information or flat-out yelling at me."

John nodded and took a drink of his coffee. He was anxious to get Greg's opinion on recent events, but after seeing the state that his friend was in, he knew his news could wait. He looked at Greg expectantly.

"I got into a row with my wife last night, not the usual cat fights that we have. A really big one. She kicked me out."

"Oh, wow. I'm sorry,"

"Yeah, well, I should have seen it coming. Been sleeping on the couch since the whole mess with Sher-...I mean him. I don't think my situation at work is going to get any better and I think she knew that. Plus, I think she fancies the P.E. Teacher over me." Greg ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair in frustration. "Why did he have to be bloody right?"

"What? Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes and his damned deductions!" He pounded his fist on the table and the people next to them glared and both John and Greg mumbled apologies. "Sorry John."

"It's alright," John paused and looked at his cup, hoping an answer would pop out, but nothing came. Instead, he asked: "Do you think there's any chance to fix it?"

Greg Lestrade paused, then took a drink of his coffee. "I...I'm not sure I want to. We've been fighting like cats and dogs for quite a while. I can't remember the last time we were happy in the same room."

John hated seeing a good friend hurting like Greg was. "I would offer you Sherlock's room in the flat, but I'm not sure how long I'm going to be there."

Greg looked up at John, brow furrowed. "Why? What's wrong?"

John opened his mouth, then shut it. He had to think carefully about what he was going to say. Greg looked at him expectantly.

"I had lunch with my sister, Harry...well, Harrietta, yesterday and...something strange happened." John paused again. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded in his head. Harry was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

"Okay, go on." Greg said before taking a drink of his coffee.

The former army doctor looked down at his cup. "I don't think Sherlock is dead."

"What was that? Say that again?" Greg leaned in towards John.

"Harry...had a man meet us for lunch. He was blond and had totally different clothes on than Sherlock would ever wear," John paused and swallowed and took a deep breath. "B-But the eyes, Greg, and his damned cheekbones. No one has those cheekbones."

"Are...you saying what I think you are saying, John? That you saw Sherlock Holmes? Or someone that looked like Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know. I mean it sounded like him, he moved like him and everything."

"John, I know..." Greg stopped and a thought occurred to him. "Did you say he had blond hair?"

"What? Yeah, why?" John looked at Greg skeptically.

"Do you remember that bloke that Molly saw at the Pub a couple weeks ago?"

John ran through the last couple weeks and landed on that evening. He remembered glancing back at the man Molly was talking to, and remembering that he looked...familiar...

"Do you think that there's someone posing as Sherlock around town?"

"I dunno," Greg Shook his head. "But that bloke looked real similar to Sherlock. The brainy bastard probably found some way to fake his goddamned suicide, just to prove he is a stinking genius. God if I don't hate and love the man all at once."

John took a slow drink of his coffee. 'What if he faked his suicide? That would be having the last word with God.'

John laughed aloud.

"What the hell is so funny?" Greg furrowed his brow at John.

"I once told someone that Sherlock would outlive God trying to have the last word."

"I...see."

"Anyway, I had left my cane at Piccadilly Circus, where I met Harry for lunch..."

Greg leaned over and looked under the table. "Speaking of, where is that where you left your cane?"

"It's right-" John felt the seat next to him where he would have put it. "I didn't bring my cane."

Greg's eyebrows went up in surprise as he took a drink of his coffee. He knew about John's war injury, and the whole story behind the cane and the psycho-somatic limp.

"Huh...I guess..." John was flabbergasted and Greg wasn't sure how to respond. "No, a waiter from the Tapas restaurant where we stalked the cab driver brought it to me, along with a note."

"You mean you two stalked that one cab driver that tried to kill Sherlock?"

"Yeah...Did you ever find the shooter?" John looked away as he drank his coffee.

"No, and something tells me that Scotland Yard will never find the shooter either." Greg looked at John through narrowed eyes as he signaled a waitress for more coffee.

"Hmmm...yes, good luck with that."

"You are a piece of work aren't you John Watson!"

John simply smiled at Greg as the waitress filled their cups.


	4. Grit on the Lens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I didn't realize you were going to take on the role of 'Big Brother is watching' so seriously." Another pause. "How long have you been watching us?"
> 
> "That's none of your concern. He is safe as long as you don't go any where near him. I advise that you leave London without delay. I am not the only one watching."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, I apologize. It's chock full of theories, all mine.
> 
> Again, no Beta-reader, so if you see any glaring mistakes or anything that makes you cringe, please let me know.
> 
> Thanks to those who have read this so far!!

Half an hour later, after deciding that they needed more privacy, John and Greg were walking to the small park that was near the Coffee Nook. As they rounded a corner, a flyer on a lamp post caught John's eye.

"What the hell," he said as he approached the lamp post. The flyer had Sherlocks profile all in black and a yellow spray painted line through his eyes. On the yellow line, the words 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' were stenciled. "Those were the last words I wrote on my blog."

"You haven't seen those posted all over London?" Greg gestured at the flyer with his coffee.

John looked at the other lamp posts on the block and saw a similar flyer on all of them. He reached out and let his finger tips run over the flyer. He could feel where the spray-paint was applied; it was a strange texture, like his coat...

"John?" Greg laid his hand on the doctor's shoulder and John gave a start. Greg raised his eyebrows. "You okay?"

"Yeah," John sighed. "I haven't noticed these until now. How long have they been up?"

Greg took his hand back and took a drink of his coffee as he thought. "About five months or so."

John looked at Greg. "That's how long he-"

"I know." Greg interrupted.

John looked back at the flyer and contemplated the meaning. "Is there any other propaganda?"

"No- wait, there is a mural down on Borthwick Wharf."

"The...Wharf?" John cocked his head.

"Yeah, it's really good. I haven't made mention of it and we haven't received any complaints over it. The quality of the piece is rather impressive."

"Hmm..." Was all John said as he placed his hand on the flyer again. With the bright yellow spray paint, he had a fairly good idea who did the flyers and possibly the mural. He gestured at Greg and they continued toward the park.

"So, you mentioned a note?" Greg said as they approached the park. They took the covers off their coffees to let them cool.

"Yeah," John dug in his jacket pocket for the note and handed it to Greg who read it as he blew on his coffee.

"Jesus, that's his handwriting all right." The detective-inspector turned the note over. "What's all this?"

John leaned over even though he knew what his friend was referring to. "It's a dream I had last night. That coupled with the fact that stuff keeps disappearing after Molly comes over to visit is-"

John stopped himself and Greg looked over at him.

"What's that?"

"I think Molly might be harbouring Sherlock." John said, a thoughtful look crossed his face.

"Oh no, there's no way, I would have-" Greg stopped himself, but not in time.

John looked at him eyebrows raised, then shook his head.

"Well that explains why I had to meet you at the Nook!"

"I only slept on her couch, that's it. Nothing happened."

"Uh-huh, I'm sure."

Greg narrowed his eyes at John. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

John chuckled and took a drink of his coffee. "I might have been depressed the past few months, but it doesn't mean I'm blind, Greg. You two flirt like two school kids."

"We do not!" Greg leaned back a little.

"Whatever you say!" John chuckled even louder. "Anyway, I think it's great. You are two good people that would be great for each other."

Greg looked at his friend in a new light. He never thought John as the philosophical type.

"Thank you." He took a drink of his coffee. "So anyway about this dream..."

"Oh, yeah, Sherlock was there, in his disguise, in the kitchen and he said a name-"

"Moran." Greg gestured with the paper and John glanced over and shivered.

"I have the feeling that I'm not supposed to be in that flat anymore."

"Where would you go?"

John sighed. "I don't know, Greg. I just don't know."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a beat as they watched people go about their Saturday business.

"Why do you think Molly might be harbouring Sherlock, if he's alive?" Greg sipped his coffee.

"Well, every time Molly visits me, I find something of Sherlock's missing. It's quite eerie actually. The last time she visited, his skull went missing."

Greg choked on his coffee. "His...skull?"

John smirked, then sniffed. "It was something he kept on the mantle."

A rumble of thunder could be heard and they both looked up at the darkening grey skies.

"Let's get to my office." Greg said as he stood as John nodded and followed.

xXXx

"So, in your dream," the detective inspector said an hour later. He was settled behind his desk with the note beside his computer, hand clicking away at the mouse. "Moran was mentioned, a spiders web, and Moriarty shot himself. I think you need to lay off the pain meds John."

John chuckled as he listened to his friend talk his way through the bizarre dream. The blogger was pacing around the office, taking in details he never noticed before. The starkness of everything; a lack of pictures or even a magazine rack, which was absurd, now that John thought about it. The bleakness bothered him now for some reason. Maybe after being in such colorful settings, the office seemed sterile, almost defeated, like it's owner. John glanced at Greg. He looked defeated, tired, beaten down. Like John felt.

John drew in a deep breath. "What's even more strange, was the realness of the dream. He touched me, and he was so...cold." He shivered.

Greg looked up at John, one eyebrow raised. He often wondered about the relationship between the consulting detective and the military doctor, but never dwelled on it until the suicide. Sherlock never had any friends, none that Greg knew about anyway. Just his sweet landlady. So when Sherlock was accompanied by John Watson at the abandoned apartment house with the Pink Lady, he was surprised, and shocked.

Greg turned his attention back to his computer. Too many hits on James Moriarty and Moran as separate search names. Searching the names together narrowed the results to under a thousand.

"Did you catch a first name, by chance?"

John chewed his bottom lip. "No, just...Moran."

"Hmmm..." Greg decided to take a different approach. He searched the last name with an initial in front, in alphabetical order. Nothing significant, until he reached the letter S.

"Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty." Greg said slowly.

"Sounds...ominous."

"Yeah, but I think I found your man." Greg made a couple of clicks and printed something out then showed it to John. The picture looked like it was taken from CCTV, but it was clear enough that John could pick out the details. Blonde hair that was gelled into a mini-Mohawk of sorts, expensive aviator sunglasses, black leather jacket with a 'Black Flag' shirt underneath, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Greg printed out a couple more pictures. One was from a popular news website. It looked like an eight by ten glossy photo that an aspiring actor would have in their folder. The man had a dazzling smile, bright green eyes, and his blonde hair was cropped short into a Caesar style. He was wearing a black button down dress shirt and was in a very relaxed pose. Another photo was from a popular film database and it was of Moriarty and Moran on what looked like a movie set. The hairs on John's neck rose and his palms became damp as he realized what he was looking at. There were captions on the pictures.

'Richard Brooke and Andrew Adair rehearsing on the set of an undisclosed movie.'

He pursed his lips and swallowed hard.

"Did you say you were in Piccadilly Square yesterday?" Greg was typing again.

"Yeah," John said slowly as he looked up at Greg.

Greg sucked in air. A couple of mouse clicks and keystrokes later and another picture was printing out. He grabbed it from the printer, nodded and mumbled, "Just what I thought."

"What?" John started before he saw the picture. It was similar to the first one that John had, only it was zoomed out. It was Moran, blending in well to a crowd of London Punk Hipsters, at Piccadilly Square at one-ten in the afternoon. The date stamp was yesterday.

"How...How did that camera pick up on that person on that time?"

"I guess Scotland Yard has been looking for him for quite a while." Greg glanced back at his screen. "Somehow that camera picked him out of that crowd. It is strange..." His voice trailed off.

"What are you thinking?"

"Someone else must be looking for this man."

xXXx

Across town, at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes' phone vibrated on his desk. He glared at it, not expecting anyone to bother him. However when he saw the number he immediately picked it up and read the text.

'They've found him.' Was all it read.

'Damn,' Mycroft mumbled under his breath. He pushed the call back button as he got up and shut his door.

"What exactly were the words that were entered?" Mycroft's voice was terse.

"Moran was the first word, then Jim Moriarty as a separate search. Then the two together."

"How did he know to search those two names together?"

"I don't know sir, but the inquiry was made inside Scotland Yard's offices."

Mycroft pursed his lips. 'Greg Lestrade.' He thought. 'But why was Lestrade searching and not John? Unless John is there with Lestrade...'

"Thank you -"

"There's more sir." The voice on the other end interrupted.

"Go on."

"I've retrieved a record for four commands sent to a printer. I'm sure they've printed his picture."

"Damn," Mycroft muttered. "Thank you."

He hung up and dialed another number. He left a very brief voice message and his phone almost immediately buzzed.

"I would advise you to move away from London. He's found Moran. I'm not sure how. You haven't contacted him have you?"

"I might have found his sister, and I might have met them for lunch yesterday."

Mycroft closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

"Piccadilly Square?"

A pause on the other end.

"I didn't realize you were going to take on the role of 'Big Brother is watching' so seriously." Another pause. "How long have you been watching us?"

"That's none of your concern. He is safe as long as you don't go any where near him. I advise that you leave London without delay. I am not the only one watching."

Mycroft hung up and turned to his laptop. A few clicks and keystrokes and Scotland Yard was on his screen. A few minutes later, John could be seen exiting with Greg Lestrade. Mycroft watched as they bantered back and forth before Greg hailed a cab. The two men got in and the cab exited the picture. Mycrofts attention was pulled to a man standing at the top right of his screen. He was leaning casually against a lamp post and smoking a cigarette. He had bright blonde hair that was styled in a Mohawk. He was dressed in black cargo pants and a red plaid flannel shirt with a black shirt underneath and a worn out leather jacket. He threw the cigarette in the street and flagged a cab. Just before a police man approached him he hopped in the cab. A few seconds later another man flagged a cab and with a couple of keystrokes he was zoomed in on his brother getting into a cab.

Mycroft let out an exasperated breath and leaned back in his chair.

'...the joy of redemption...give him a puzzle and watch him dance.'


	5. Eye for an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world suddenly stopped and John held his breath.
> 
> He had never seen Sherlock cry until that moment...  
> Was he faking on the roof?  
> No, his voice was too strained, too sad...
> 
> John looked up and all he could see was Sherlock falling and he closed his eyes tightly.
> 
> But he didn't hear him land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not Beta-read.   
> Raz is a hard character to write.

John pulled his coat closer to him as he stepped out of the building. The air had become significantly colder since they had been in Greg's office and as John looked up at the sky, he could see dark gray clouds gathering.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked after he saw John wincing.

"Yeah," John sighed. "It's going to snow soon."

"How the hell do you know that?" Greg said as he tried to flagged a cab.

"I can feel it."

Greg only glanced at John, who was staring at some distant point across the street.

'Could it be...?' John crossed his arms.

"What'cha staring at?" Greg was shoulder to shoulder to John and he saw a man walking away from them, baseball cap on and he flipped his collar...

"Jesus, I need a pint." The Inspector Detective stepped away from John and finally flagged a cab.

"Me too."

"Why would he fake his suicide?" Greg asked after they had stepped into the cab. "It doesn't make any sense."

John sighed. "No, it really doesn't. But that was Sherlock. Some of the things he did never made sense until he would do something else, and your brain caught up. I stopped trying to figure it out after a while."

Greg made a noise of agreement then looked out the window. It was twilight and London was starting to light up and they rode in comfortable silence until they reached Greg's house.

"Time to face the music." Greg let out a large sigh as he got out of the cab.

"I can hold the cab here if you want me to?" John offered as he leaned forward.

"No, it'll be fine." Greg looked back at the house. "It doesn't look like she's here anyway. Probably with her sisters family telling them what a horrible husband I am."

"Greg, I-"

"I'll see you in about an hour." Greg shut the door before John could finish his sentence. He told the cabbie his address and settled back in his seat.

John thought about all the times he shared a cab with Sherlock. Even after the crazy cabbie tried to kill him, Sherlock still rode in a cab. He smiled to himself and thought about Sherlock deducing everything but the sex of his sibling just from his phone.

As he was watching the London street life pass by, he caught sight of one of the flyers posted on a lamp. He smirked a little and called a different address to the cabbie.

Twenty minutes later, John was telling the cabbie to hold. He reached inside his coat and brought out a torch. There was enough light still, but he didn't want to be caught unawares. He walked along a rocky path for a moment, making sure he was out of the cabbies line of sight and brought his gun out. John turned it over in his hand, knowing that he had already checked it. Instinct told him to check it again. Fully loaded and ready to go. He placed it in the outside pocket of his jacket in case he needed to reach for it quickly. He continued along the pebbly path, squinting at shadowy shapes that begun to form. John could hear the Thames licking at her banks and the creaking of some unknown object. He was now in the center of the wharf, where Sherlock had put on the best acting job of his life confronting Ian Monkford's wife. John had never seen Sherlock cry, and to see him cry then had been slightly shocking, even if it was fake.

The world suddenly stopped and John held his breath.

He had never seen Sherlock cry until that moment...

Was he faking on the roof?

No, his voice was too strained, too sad...

John looked up and all he could see was Sherlock falling and he closed his eyes tightly.

But he didn't hear him land.

He exhaled loudly and the blood came rushing to his ears and his heart was pounding. John bent forward and leaned on his knees and tried to control his breathing.

When he opened his eyes, he saw what he had come to see. A large mural of a silhouette of Sherlock painted all black with a bright yellow stripe through his eyes. In the stripe the words 'Believe in Sherlock' were stenciled.

A small smile broke across John's features.

The sound of footsteps caused him a start and John realized he was out in the open. The pounding of his heart echoed in his ears as the footsteps became louder.

"Aye, you there," the voice was young and rough and it sounded familiar as John turned towards it. "What are you doin' by yerself 'ere? Do I know you?"

The person came into view as John shone his torch on him. His dirty jeans and red sweatshirt were recognizable, but for the life of him John couldn't remember the kids name.

"I think so. I am-" John paused to correct himself. "I was a good friend of Sherlock Holmes."

The kid squinted at John and as he approached a look of recognition crossed his face.

"Oh, yeah, you got the ABSO that time. Sorry 'bout that mate. And … thanks." He gestured to his surroundings. "What're you doin' down 'ere? You lost?"

"No," John chuckled despite himself. "I came to see this mural that someone told me ab0ut. It's quite good. I think Sherlock would be proud."

"Thanks mate. I saw what you wrote on your blog. The last line was inspirin'! I didn't think the bloke was fake. He was a lot more real than most people are these days."

John smiled. "It's good to hear you say that. He was a good person, but some people didn't see that."

"Aye, mate, what's your name? I don't do names very well. Faces I remember just like that!" The young man snapped his fingers. "But names don't stick with me. Sherlock tired to help me, but it wasn't workin'"

"I'm John. John Watson." He held out his hand. "I have the same problem with names."

"Heh, Raz is what everybody calls me." Raz shook Johns hand. "Thanks for comin' down to see the mural."

"Looks good next to the pig." They chuckled. Then John asked: "Did you do the flyers on the posts around town?"

"Yeah, you like those too?"

"Pretty brilliant, if I might say."

"I'm gonna change it up tonight. That's what I'm doin' here." Raz took off the backpack that was slung over one shoulder and unzipped it. He brought out a pile of papers with what looked like Moriarty's profile. Over the eyes was a red line and in that line was stenciled: 'Richard Brook was a fake.'

"Mind if I keep one?"

"Nah, that's fine. I got more of Sherlock as well." Raz's hand plunged into his pack and pulled out another piece of paper and handed it to John.

"Thank you."

"Hey Raz," A voice came from the shadows and John turned his torch in that direction. A small group of people about Raz's age were approaching them and mocking Raz. "Who's your friend?"

"Sod off!" Raz called.

"I should get going anyway," John started.

"You don't want to stay and watch a work of art in progress?" Raz smirked.

"No I have to meet someone shortly. I'll see you around?" John waved and turned and started to walk away.

"Aye, say..." Raz caught up with John and hesitated. "Aww, never mind. You would think I was out of my skull."

"Probably not with the last couple of days that I've had." John said.

The young man opened his mouth then closed it. "I...Would you think I was out of my head if I told you that I think I see … him... around town?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Ah, no actually, I wouldn't."

" 'Cuz I see this man with blond hair and the most intense eyes, and those cheekbones..." Raz gestured at his cheekbones and John laughed. "You do think I'm barking, don't you?"

"No, no...I'm sorry," John cleared his throat. "I see him everywhere myself. He was an amazing man."

"Yeah...thanks John, I'm glad you came down tonight."

"Me too." John nodded as Raz bounded back to his friends.

John started to walk back towards the cab and as he tried to flick on his torch, it didn't respond. He shook it and tried it again.

"Bloody thing." He said under his breath and put the dead torch in his pocket. He had a pretty good idea how to get back to the cab, and there was just enough ambient light from the city for him to see where he was going.

Not enough light to see the man spring from the shadows and cover John's mouth before he could call out. The man had a strong hold on both arms as John struggled.

"Ain't no use, John." This was a new voice. "I know every military move you do, so don't bother to try anything stupid. Now, let's see what's in the pockets." He reached in John's jacket pocket. "Nice piece, I'll have that." John grunted as the man pushed it into his back. "Walk back to the cab. If you make any funny moves, I will kill you. An eye for an eye."

John glanced back at his assailant. All he caught was light hair and a very familiar silhouette.

"Who are you? Why do you know who I am?" John tried to keep the fear out of his voice. It wasn't working and he could feel his hands shaking.

"You'll figure it out when we get in the cab."

They never made it to the cab as John heard a loud thud as someone hit the man on the head with a blunt object. John turned on his heel just in time to see a tall man in a baseball cap and brown leather jacket wrestle the man to the ground. He kicked the other man, then threw the gun at John who caught it. Running on shear adrenaline, he took the safety off and cocked the gun. With all of the commotion and shadows, he wasn't sure where to aim.

"Run, John!"

John hated that a voice could stop him in his bloody tracks. It was Sherlock's voice. He knew it anywhere.

"Goddammit, John," and he was suddenly being dragged by an arm in the direction of the cab.

"Get in before Raz sees you!" John was pushed into the cab and the voice called out the address to his flat.

John was bent over in the seat, trying to control the adrenaline running through his veins and his breathing.

"John, are you okay?"

John's vision swam and flashbacks of a lab in Dartmoor came to him.

A hand on his back and the voice again.

"It's okay now, John."

"NO IT'S NOT OKAY!" John was sitting up now, breathing hard and seeing red. The man in the seat next to him should have been Sherlock; but it wasn't, at least that's what his eyes were telling him. The rest of his senses were screaming Sherlock.

"John, I'm sorry," The voice was Sherlock's. The eyes were Sherlock's. The cheekbones were Sherlock's. "I had to leave Moran there."

John only stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Moran? That was Moran?"

"Yes, he's Moriarty's right hand man."

A noise by John's knees caught Sherlock's attention and his eyes moved down. He had forgotten he threw the gun at John. Now it was in his hand, and it was shaking. Sherlock swallowed. He had never seen John shaking so hard. He reached his own long, thin fingers and gripped John's hand as the other jumped at Sherlock's cold touch. John stared at the hand.

"Sher-" The name caught in John's throat. He sniffed. "Sherlock Holmes, my best f-friend, is...is...is dead. Who are you? Why are you playing such an evil game?"

Sherlock willed John to look him in the eyes.

"Look at me John Watson." Sherlock grabbed John's chin. He could see the fear and doubt in John's eyes and for a moment he doubted himself.

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

John drew in a shaky breath. Only fear remained.

Sherlock eased John's hand off the gun, and clicked on the safety.

"You are going to have to trust your instincts." Sherlock laid the gun back in Johns lap and John's eyes followed his hands, then stared at the gun. Sherlock's voice was suddenly at his ear.

"I am sorry, John."

John bit his lip and squeezed back the tears in his eyes. "Why did you do...that?"

"To protect you. Moriarty had threatened your life." The former consulting detective paused, and John heard more in that pause than anything else that Sherlock said. He heard that he valued John's life over his own, he heard that, more than anything, Sherlock valued John's friendship. "Moriarty threatened Mrs. Hudson's life and Lestrade. I had to fake suicide or else you would have had a bullet through your head."

"I would rather have had that bullet."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You don't mean that."

"You have no idea what hell I've endured. The nightmares and not sleeping because of the nightmares..." John took a deep breath to calm himself. "And here you are now, expecting me to accept you with open arms. I can't, not right now."

Sherlock held John's cold gaze.

"I have to leave London, so you won't have to worry about that."

John laughed hysterically.

"Imagine that! Isn't that convenient-"

"John, I can't put your life in danger anymore. I need to lead Moran away from London, away from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Away from you." Sherlock laid his hand on John's arm and John stared at it. The weight of it was so unreal. Those long graceful fingers that he would watch as Sherlock would conduct his experiments in their kitchen, or the way they would manipulate his scarf, or the way they reached out for him on top of that building...

John squeezed his eyes shut.

Sherlock felt something wet on his hand and realized that John was crying. He wasn't sure what the protocol was for a situation like this. When ever he hurt Molly, he would kiss her on the sheek or forehead and he would watch her blush. He found it fascinating. Sherlock wondered how John would react if he kissed him on the temple or even the forehead. He shook his head slightly and put his arm around John. He was surprised when John leaned into him.

"I am sorry John. I hope you will forgive me someday." Sherlock whispered into John's hair and dropped his scarf in John's lap. "Until then, keep this, and I will contact you when I'm back in London."

The cab stopped and Sherlock squeezed John, then got out of the cab. He nodded at Greg and quickly walked away.


	6. Heavy In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looked down at the pictures again as he drank his beer. He wondered who Moran really was; if he really existed. Or if Moran was a fake and the 'Andrew Adair' was the real thing. The site they had brought up at Scotland Yard had very little information. He wondered if the world's only consulting criminal had a companion, a colleague, as Sherlock sometimes referred to John as. He wondered if this companion was as lost without his friend as John was.

"What in the bloody hell was that?" John could hear Greg's voice, but he was too focused on the scarf in his lap to understand what he was saying. 

Greg looked dumbfoundedly at the busy street a block away as his mind was trying to resolve the fact that Sherlock Holmes had just casually nodded at him and walked away. Feeling a headache coming on, he rubbed his neck and shook his head. He chuckled to himself, thinking about the information that had presented itself to him today. Then to have 'that man', or a very good facsimile thereof, just magically get out of a cab and nod at him and walk away; it was all too much for Greg Lestrade.

Until he leaned into the cab.

"John?"

John cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the scarf. Sherlock's distinct scent was there. 

"I...um...yeah," John scooted in his seat and Greg stepped aside as the other got out of the cab. What he saw on John's face startled him.

"John, you okay? You look like hell." 

John bit his lip and looked around to orient himself, then down at the scarf he was holding in his hand. Greg cocked his head at him expectantly.

"Hey pal," the cabbie's voice broke the silence. "You're not gonna walk away too, are ya? I need my money!"

John started to walk over the driver, but Greg stopped him. John nodded and he finally got his senses about him and spotted a duffel bag on the sidewalk.

"Whose...is that yours?" John pointed at it as Greg came back around to him.

"Yeah," Greg shuffled his feet and rubbed the back of his neck. "The wife gave me a month to move out."

"Oh, Christ, I'm sorry Greg." John sighed. "I...dunno what to say. I mean you can stay here, but there isn't much room-"

"Listen, I don't mean to assume that you would let me stay here-"

 

"No, no it's fine. I probably shouldn't be alone for a while anyway." John swallowed visibly. Greg narrowed his eyes at the doctor. He knew about John's suicide attempt; Harry had called him after John had called his sister. John was out cold and being taken out by stretcher by the time Greg had reached the flat. Harry had reassured him that John was still alive, but he had lost a lot of blood.

"You okay, Greg?" John furrowed his brow. "Did I say something? You look angry all of a sudden."

Greg drew in a deep breath. He was mad. Mad at Sherlock for making his friends suffer like this. 

"I'm fine," he lied as he gestured at John. "We should get a pint. I need something to calm me down."

"Yeah sure." John walked up to his door and unlocked it.

"Thank you, John," Greg said as they climbed the stairs to the flat. "I appreciate you doing this."

"It's the least I can do. I know you and I never saw eye to eye very often, but you've been a good friend lately. You were acquainted with Sherlock longer than I. You knew how to deal with most of his quirks better than I most times."

Greg laughed as John unlocked the door to the flat. "Quirks. Interesting choice of words. You were the one that had to live with the bloke. I'm surprised you got any sleep."

"I rarely did, as you can see by the leftover bags under these eyes." John pointed at his eyes and smiled at the many times he went days with just three or four hours of sleep.

"Heh, never bored?"

"To say the least!" John smirked and gestured in the direction of Sherlock's room. "You can take his old room, or the couch is surprisingly comfortable."

"I'll take the couch tonight. I can find a room tomorrow." Greg said as he dropped his duffel on the couch and started in the direction of the toilet. "Thanks again, John. I'll be right back."

"Yeah...yes of course." John folded the scarf once and held it up with both hands. He smiled as he pictured the many times Sherlock had put on that scarf. He wrapped it around his own neck and closed his eyes. It was soft and surprisingly warm.

Greg was about to say something before he saw John in the middle of the room with Sherlock's scarf around his neck. John didn't move and Greg heard an audible sigh from the man.

"Well, shall we go?" Greg clapped his hands together and bit his lip to hold back a chuckle as John struggled out of the scarf. He was a tad red-faced and breathless when he turned to face Greg.

"Yes...um, yes we should go." John stumbled to the fireplace and laid the scarf on the mantle. He paused for a second and smirked, then turned and grabbed his gloves off the desk. He gestured to the window as he put on the gloves.

"I hope you have a heavier jacket. It's started to snow."

"What the-" Greg started as his long legs carried him in two strides to the window. And there it was, large fluffy white flakes making their way lazily down to the London streets.

Greg sighed. "Damn, I don't have anything heavier. I just grabbed and stuffed the important things into the bag."

"I might have something, hang on." John said as he went to a closet that was out of Greg's sight.

Greg looked out of the window again and shivered. The last time it snowed he was at a Christmas party here in the flat. When he first saw Molly in that dress...

Greg cleared his throat and stepped away from the window and pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

"Here you go." John said as he entered the room. He handed Greg a heavy down winter jacket that was similar to the one that he lost at the pool, but with out the hood.

"Thanks, John, really you don't have to go through all the trouble." Greg said as he hung up his phone when there was no answer. He put on the jacket and followed John, who was already headed down the stairs. "I hope you don't mind, but I was gonna invite Molly, if I can get a hold of her."

"I think that is a great idea!" John said as he stepped out to hail a cab. 'I have a few questions to ask that woman.'

 

Molly had the distinct and creepy feeling that someone was following her home. She looked over her shoulder every few seconds as she walked the short distance from the Tube to her tiny house. There was never anyone there, that she could see. Sherlock had taught her to always survey the shadows, there could be someone lurking, waiting to jump out and grab you. Molly stared into the shadows, but her night vision was terrible. She could hear the breeze rustling through the trees as she pulled her jacket closer to herself. She shoved her hand into her pocket and fingered the small, but highly effective, can of mace she had there and relaxed a little. Just one more block, she told herself as a shiver ran up her spine. She swore she heard footfalls behind her, and she whipped her head around to look, but nobody was there. Just the traffic on the main street three blocks away. Her phone started to vibrate in her bag, but she didn't want to be caught unawares, talking on her cell. Molly started to walk faster as butterflies formed in her stomach and she ran up the stairs and started to put the key in the lock.

"Molly!"

It all happened so fast, she didn't have time to scream.

Someone had a tight grip on her wrists and one hand over her mouth, and their breath was hot on her ear. 

"Molly, it's me Sherlock!"

Molly swore into his hand and as soon as Sherlock let her go, she grabbed the can of mace and pointed it at the man.

"Molly don't!" Sherlock cried as he ducked.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Molly lowered the mace and put her hand to her heart. "You scared the living daylights outta me!"

"I'm sorry, Molly," Sherlock closed the distance between them and kissed her on the forehead. She blushed, just like clock work. "It will be the last time in a long time, I can promise that."

"But why did you scare me like that? Nearly gave me a heart attack!" Molly tried to catch her breath as she turned away from Sherlock to look in her bag for her keys.

"Are you looking for these?" Sherlock bent and grabbed the keys from the porch.

She pursed her lips at him. "Of course I'm looking for those!" She swiped them from his hand and shoved them into the lock.

"So why did you feel the need to frighten me to death?" Molly said after she had entered her house and turned on the front room lamp. She hung her bag on the coat rack next to the door and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock started to follow Molly, but hesitated. He looked around the living room. It was distinctly Molly. In fact the whole house was distinctly Molly. He decided that even though it definitely didn't suit him, he was going to miss the homey feel of the place. It reminded him of his Grandmothers house for some reason.

'Caring is not an advantage...Sherlock.' 

He wasn't sure why his brothers words suddenly floated into his head, but they were there, making a permanent residence.

"Sherlock, I wish you wou-...oh," Molly interrupted her self as she walked back into the living room. Sherlock was standing there gesturing like a madman and crying. Molly was so confused; she had never witnessed this side of Sherlock before. She had heard him crying through the basement door before, but never was witness to it. She took a deep breath and stepped forward and gently grabbed one of his wrists. He stopped crying and focused on her face.

"Sherlock?"

"M-Molly...I..." He looked around and found the couch and started for it as Molly let go of his wrist. He fell into the couch and buried his face into his hands. His mind had shut down any logical physical and mental responses to the world right then. He didn't know how to deal with the strong emotions he was having. With Irene, it was easy, he had his violin and he had John...he had only one of those now. 

"Sherlock, please, what's wrong?" Molly was sitting next to him now and was debating on putting her arm around him, but decided against it. Instead, she leaned against him, and surprisingly enough, he didn't shrink away. "Remember what I said Sherlock, anything you need, I am here for you."

Sherlock's body stopped sobbing, but Molly could hear him sniffling. 

"I just...need to … be alone...for a little while..." 

Molly sighed inwardly and stood and went into her kitchen and filled a glass for water and found a dishtowel. She hesitated in the entryway between the kitchen and living room as her phone indicated a text. Biting her lip she glanced at Sherlock, who hadn't moved. She walked back into the kitchen and set the towel down and picked up her phone. Molly could feel her face turning a bright red when she saw Greg's name attached to the text.

'Come out and have a couple pints with John and I. We r @ the Globe.'

She also noted that the missed call was from Greg as well. Molly put her phone down and played with a loose thread on the dishtowel. She wanted to be with the boys, but she wanted to be here for Sherlock.

Picking up the dish cloth, she made her way into the living room. Sherlock was laying on the couch now, facing towards the back of the couch. Molly walked over and set the water glass on the coffee table next to the towel. 

"I was thinking about going to the Globe and-"

"Where is my violin?"

Molly threw his back a confused look as she played with the hem of her sleeve. "I-I thought it was in the basement. I thought I snuck it over with some of your other stuff."

Sherlock sniffed. "Thank you Molly."

Molly opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. She walked back into the kitchen and answered Greg's text.

 

 

"Oh good, she's coming." Greg said after he looked at his phone. "I know we've been avoiding the subject, but I have to know. Was that really Sherlock that got out of your cab?"

"Mmm..." John nodded as he finished taking a drink. "Yes, it was, I guess. I don't know for sure. I sounded exactly like him."

"Wasn't that his scarf you put on your mantel?"

John looked thoughtfully into his glass. "Yeah, I guess it was."

"I probably can't imagine how hard all of this is for you, so I'm not gonna speculate on the implications of all this."

"Thank you." John ran a hand through his hair. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around it all myself. I just wish I knew why he decided to reveal himself now. I feel that Moriarty and Moran have a lot to do with this, and we are gonna hear a lot more about them."

"Are we sure that Moriarty even existed?"

John hated that question. Even more than the other question of whether Sherlock existed. 

"I'm willing to find out." He traced the rim of his glass. "And I'm willing to prove it. No matter what it takes."

"Okay," Greg said before he took a rather large drink from his pint. IT went down smoothly and cooled his temper.

"Didn't you once say that Sherlock was a great man, and someday, if we are lucky, he'll be a good one?" John took a drink.

Greg stared at him open mouthed.

"What?"

"How?" Greg started. "How do you remember that? I barely remember it."

"It's something that stuck in my head ever since you said it. And I'm glad it did. I finally realize what it means, what you meant by it."

"Well, as much of a pain in the arse he was, he really was a good man."

They both took a drink in the silence.

"Whiskey?" Greg asked.

"Oh god, yes!" 

One glass of whiskey later, Molly walked in, shaking the snow off her jacket. The patrons that were sitting close to the door turned and looked at her astonished. Most of them had walked in when there was no snow. Now an hour later, there was an inch gathering.

"Molly!" 

She stretched her neck in the direction of the voice and saw Greg waving at her. There seemed to be an extraordinary amount of people in the Globe, even for a Saturday evening.

"Hi guys," she said breathlessly when she reached the table. Molly noted the empty whiskey glasses and the empty pints. "Got a good head start I see?"

"It's been an...eventful day." Greg answered as he scooted over to let Molly in.

"To say the least." John smiled his half smile.

"Oh, do tell!" Molly said as she flagged a waitress.

"Molly, John and I have been talking and," Greg paused and looked up at John, thinking about what he was about to say, the absurdity of it. "And, we think that you might be...that Sherlock Holmes might be living in your basement."

They watched as Molly tensed and paused as she ordered her drink. She cleared her throat and continued.

"And make it a double, please." She smiled a small smile at the waitress who nodded at the two men. They each ordered another glass of whiskey and a pint.

"I don't know what you guys are talking about."

"We know it sounds a little strange, but there is some evidence that points to Sherlock being alive." John said as he leaned forward.

"And I think I've seen him with my own two eyes." Greg tapped his head.

Molly laughed nervously as she looked from John to Greg, then back to John. She grabbed John's hand. "John, I know how hard everything has been, but this is a bit delusional." 

John frowned at Molly as she turned to chastise Greg. "And you are just as bad, fueling the illusion-"

"Molly, where is Sherlock's skull? Where is his violin?" John cut across Molly.

Her eyes were as big as saucers when she looked back at him. "John, how should I know?"

"Because every time you've come over to the flat, something else goes missing."

Molly's mouth formed a tight line. John hadn't seen her that mad since she accused Sherlock of saying the awful things he did during Christmas last year. They held each others gazes and as Greg was about to say something, their waitress came with their drinks.

"Are you accusing me of stealing, John?" Molly said before taking a drink.

John was fully aware of the scowl that Greg was throwing him. "No I'm not, Molly, but I can't help but think that it makes sense for him to be staying in your basement."

"Greg, please tell him this is foolish nonsense." 

"I … don't know what to think." Greg shrugged and took a swig of his whiskey. "There's a lot of good evidence that John has presented me that makes me think that Sherlock might be alive."

"Are you saying that my reports and death certificates aren't good enough evidence?"

"No, no Molly," Greg rested a hand gently on Molly's arm. "John, tell her what you did yesterday."

Molly turned dark eyes to John and he flinched at her look. "Yesterday, I met my sister at Piccadilly for lunch and she had a 'friend' meet us there." He dug in his jacket pocket and brought out three black and white pictures. "CCTV caught these images."

Molly took them and stared at them wide-eyed. "I...it looks like him, but this guy has blonde hair and a ball cap on! Sherlock never wears-"

"Molly!" John drew in a breath and lowered his voice. "Molly look at those pictures. I'm sitting there close enough to see him. I honestly didn't believe it at first. How could I?" 

Molly and Greg watched as John ran his hand over his face. He suddenly looked ten years older. 

"Who is this man?" She asked as she pointed at the third picture that didn't have Sherlock in it. 

"That is Sebastian Moran." Greg said.

"Who?"

"Jim Moriarty's right hand man." John said as he took a long drink of his whiskey. It went down warm and pooled in his empty stomach. He tried to think of the last time he ate.

"Didn't you John?" The doctor looked up at the sound of his name.

"What?"

"You had a bizarre dream about Sherlock and him mentioning Moran and Moriarty killing himself."

Molly gasped and John and Greg looked at her as she quickly took a drink.

"Is there … mmm," John had to pause and think about what he was saying. The alcohol was going to his head and making things fuzzy. "Is there something you want to tell us, Molly."

Greg scrutinized John for a second before he turned his attention to Molly.

"Umm..." She looked every where but at the guys and lowered her voice. "I didn't have a Jim Moriarty on the autopsy list. I had a Richard Brook. But no Moriarty."

"Wait," Greg finished his whiskey. "So it wasn't Moriarty that we found on the roof?"

Molly nodded her head and sipped on her drink. She could feel her cheeks starting to get warm.

John's heart went heavy. He was certain that Richard Brook was a fake. He was also certain that his best friend wasn't a fake.

He looked down at the pictures again as he drank his beer. He wondered who Moran really was; if he really existed. Or if Moran was a fake and the 'Andrew Adair' was the real thing. The site they had brought up at Scotland Yard had very little information. He wondered if the world's only consulting criminal had a companion, a colleague, as Sherlock sometimes referred to John as. He wondered if this companion was as lost without his friend as John was. 

John chuckled to himself at that then he thought about his encounter with Moriarty. The Semtex wrapped around his chest, the look in Sherlock's eyes when he stepped out of the shadows at the pool. 

If Sherlock was a sociopath, then Moriarty was most certainly a psychopath.

"Wot's so funny?" Greg's speech was starting to get looser.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about...something. Not a big deal." John said as he ran his finger along the rim of his glass of beer.

Greg and Molly exchanged concerned glances.

"John, I-" Molly started as she reached over to cover his hand with hers. 

"What is it, Molly?" John prompted when she didn't go on. She took a deep breath. She couldn't stand to see John hurting any more. If he talked briefly with Sherlock, then maybe things wouldn't be so bad. 

"There is something that you should see," Molly paused and finished her drink. It was Greg and John's turn to look at each other. "It's in my basement."

"Sherlock is in your basement, isn't he?"

Molly pursed her lips as she looked from Greg to John, then down to her drink. 

"Molly...?"

"I think you should see for yourself."


	7. Stayin' Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me you like the title? *wiggles eyebrows*
> 
> Sorry if this is confusing. I love dream sequences, they're my favorite thing to write. Plus, I like the idea of Moriarty torturing John...unf...
> 
> At any rate, I had to put a warning on it for swearing, sorry kids.
> 
> Let me know if you absolutely hate it, or just can't get enough.  
> I love feedback!
> 
> You guys rock my tiny little Sherlock world!

"So, Molly Hooper," Greg started as he got out of the cab in front of Molly's house. "Any other secrets you're hiding from us?"

"No, Greg, I promise." Molly pulled her jacket closer to herself as she dug for her keys in her pocket. Their footsteps crunched under the new, wet snow.

"Molly, I cannit believe that you've hidden Sherlick away ferm ush." John stumbled out of the cab and the detective inspector caught him.

"I think you need to slow down'er ole boy." Greg said as he helped his friend up the steps into Molly's house. "Wot's wrong with you anyway? You had the same to drink as I have."

"I...um...haven't had anything to eat, I believe," John tapped his head.

"Well, that cood be an issue," Greg helped the doctor onto Molly's couch as Molly went into the basement to look for Sherlock.

Holding tightly onto the railing and her head swimming, she pulled the string to turn on the light to the landing, then rapped softly on the door.

"Sherlock?" She pressed her ear against the door. Not a sound could be heard.

"Huh, mmm... maybe he's out..." She said to no one in particular as she unlocked the door and let herself in. Feeling around for the nearest lamp, she found it and turned it on. What met her eyes shocked and amazed her. The basement looked exactly the way it did before Sherlock moved in. Even the bullet holes were spackled over.

Molly threw her hand to her face and spun around, looking for a sign that Sherlock had even been there. It was all she could do to not call out to John and Greg.

Then, a glint of silver caught her eye.

She stopped spinning, but her head didn't and she held her hand over her mouth and drew in a deep slow breath. Groaning she made her way over to the item in the corner of the basement. It was Sherlock's music stand, with a recorder on it and a note. A noise of surprise escaped her mouth as she picked up the note and immediately recognized Sherlock's graceful handwriting. She was always amazed that such a genius and chaotic person could have such beautiful handwriting:

 

'Dearest Molly,

I'm not good at long goodbyes. I must ask one last favor of you. Please tell no one of me staying here, as tempting as it may be. John thinks I'm still alive, but you must play devils advocate for me and let him know that it was all in his mind. That he must be experiencing some sort of stress from everything that has happened. You have been a great friend, Molly.

Always remember that you do count.

Always and most sincerely yours,

Sherlock.'

 

"Oh god," Molly's anxiety kicked in full gear. Her heart started racing, her mind became a rush of thoughts and ideas, none of which made any sense. Her breathing was uneven and her knees were threatening to give out on her. She backed her self against the wall and started sobbing uncontrollably. Molly turned her face against the cool stone of the wall to help herself calm down.

"Molly?"

She didn't hear the voice at first. It blended in with the white noise of her mind.

"My god, Molly are you okay?"

Everything came to a sudden stop as soon as Greg came into focus. She could feel his hand on her face wiping the tears from her cheeks, and she could see his lips moving. Her heart thumping in her chest however, was the only thing she could hear.

Suddenly, she collapsed into Greg's arms.

"God's sake woman," he shifted his weight to hold on to hers. Then, he ran his hand over her hair and made comforting noises into her ear. He wasn't sure he could hold everyone up for very much longer. His own strength and will were taking a harsh beating. So was Sherlock, for that matter, if he was truly alive.

They stayed like that for five minutes, when Molly slowly recovered her senses and stood on her own.

Greg took her face gently into his hands and wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Tell me wot's wrong Molly."

She sniffed and held up the note. "G-Greg, I dunno if I can hold up the illusion by my self much longer. John is already so devastated."

"Wait a minute," Greg said after reading the note. "I was doubting everything, even myself for the longest time today. Are you telling me that Sherlock...that he was alive, and living in your basement?"

Molly only nodded as her bottom lip was shaking.

Greg read the note again.

"I will help you Molly, I will help you keep the illusion." Greg gritted his teeth. It was going to be hard. "I left John on your couch. He's almost three sheets right now, it might be easy to convince him of a different reason of why we came to your house."

Molly nodded again and sniffed and wiped her nose on her sleeve. Greg took her into his arms again.

"Thank you Greg, and I'm sorry you had to witness my little breakdown."

"It's alright Molly, I expect it'll be my turn shortly. We should get back upstairs."

Molly stepped away from Greg and folded the note and put it back on the music stand. She gave Greg her best smile.

"Atta girl." He smiled back as he put an arm around her.

Upstairs they found John staring out of Molly's window.

"Watcha lookin' at John?" Greg asked as he stood beside the other man. He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned forward and peered out the window. A small noise escaped his lips as he saw large fluffy white flakes falling to the street. The whole of outside was illuminated with the amber color of the city, giving everything a very surreal feel.

Molly chuckled at the two men as she came back into the living room from the kitchen with a bottle of water in one hand and her cat in the other. They turned to face her and John started sneezing as the cat jumped from Molly's hands.

"Oh, poor Toby, he's been in hiding since-" Molly stopped herself.

"Since we got here, right?" Greg finished for her.

"Well, I guess I didn't realize I was allergic to cats." John sniffed as Molly handed him a tissue. "Thank you. I should be going."

"I'm sorry John," Molly said as the doctor started for the door.

"No, it's alright. You and Greg were right, I am delusional. Holding on to a memory, thinking that Sher-... thinking that he's going to be living here, in your basement."

"John, I -"

"No, it's okay Molly. We're all delusional. Believing in this fantastical world where the almighty Sherlock Holmes is alive-" John sneezed again, then blew his nose.

"John maybe we shoul-"

John's eyes grew as big as saucers and he started gesturing like a madman. "You know what? I bet this is all part of Moriarty's web of deception. I bet that was him all dressed up as Sherlock! Or Moran! Or what's his stage name, Andrew Adair. Bloody ridiculous!"

John sneezed once more before he exited Molly's house.

Greg and Molly stood looking at each other, dumbfounded.

"What happened up here?" Molly whispered and Greg shrugged.

Then the door opened again.

"Um, Greg your stuff is at the flat," John hiccuped.

"Oh yeah, we were headed there." Greg started for the door, and turned and realized that Molly wasn't following them. "Aren't you comin', Molly?"

"No, no you two need a night to vent. I need some time alone." She sniffed and took another drink of her water.

"Oh my god Molly," John was suddenly feeling a lot more sober as he walked back into the house. He gently grabbed her upper arms and examined her tear-stained face. "This whole time, I've been wallowing in my own self pity, when here you are, looking like something your cat dragged in. What happened? What did I miss in my stupid drunken stupor?"

Molly chuckled in spite of herself. "Thanks John. I'm okay. I shouldn't drink when I'm completely bonkers. All the stress and everything at work..."

John took her in his arms. "I'm really sorry Molly. You know if you need any one to talk to, we are here, I am always here."

Molly returned his embrace and smiled warmly at Greg over John's shoulder. Greg returned the smile. "Thank you, John, that means a lot. But don't you think that I should be saying that to you?"

John broke the hug first, but still held onto her, as he looked over at the detective inspector. "I think we are all in this together. I think there is something more sinister going on than we think, and if you guys will help me, I intend to find out what the hell is really going on."

Both Molly and Greg raised their eyebrows as they looked at each other, then back to John.

"I agree." Greg said.

"Yes, John." Molly said at the same time.

"Did you just say sinister?" Greg snorted.

"I-..." John looked at Greg and blinked a few times, then smiled. Molly hid her giggles behind her hand. "Yes, Greg, I believe I did just say sinister."

The three burst out laughing.

"Great," John adjusted his jacket. "Now let's enjoy the rest of our evening together. No mention of this or Sherlock the rest of the evening."

"You boys go ahead. I need some time by myself." Molly smiled her mouse smile.

"Molly, you need this as much as we do. C'mon now," John held out his hand and smiled at her. Molly bit her lip. She hadn't seen that smile from John in a long time. Her eyes darted over to Greg as he smiled as well and nodded. She put her hand in John's. "Oh what the hell! I haven't had a night out in ages!"

~xXXx~

John's head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton balls and his body was stiff from laying on a cold, hard surface. He tried to draw in a deep breath, but it caught in his dry throat and he coughed. That cough reverberated through his head and made him suddenly and thoroughly aware of the rest of his body. He wiggled his toes and fingers and was glad he could still feel them. He thought of the previous evening, and tried to evaluate the amount he had to drink. John remembered taking an aspirin and drinking a couple bottles of water, but things after that were very fuzzy.

Attempting to move his limbs was something that John's body wasn't ready for; they were stiff and his legs felt like he had been running for hours without stretching. He drew in another deep breath and this one reached his lungs and swept through the rest of his body.

Suddenly, a faint voice broke into the white noise that occupied John's brain. He hadn't opened his eyes yet, fearing the piercing white light that would meet them. At first he wasn't really sure he had heard the voice until it was right next to his ear. Out of instinct, John flinched away from the voice and opened his eyes, immediately regretting that decision. The light he had feared met his eyes and he managed a small groan which echoed through his head.

"Wakey, Wakey Doctor Watson."

For some reason, John was visualizing barbed wire wrapped in black velvet; there was something eerily familiar about that voice.

"Glad you could finally join the living, John."

"Sherlock?" John tried to raise his head and focus on the dark shadow in front of his eyes.

"Oh, my good Doctor, you flatter me." John felt a hand on his shoulder. "I have told the good detective how much alike we are and you've just proved my point. I wish I had a pet as clever as you." A low giggle, then the voice continued. "I am glad you are awake, John. I wouldn't want you to miss all the fun!"

Where had he heard that line, that voice...John's head pounded as he tried to remember. Was his hangover giving him some weird de ja vu? Was he dreaming?

John blinked several times to try to focus. The light wasn't quite as blinding now and the figure that was in front of him was starting to take shape. He tried moving his body again, and managed to roll onto his back.

"Oh John," the voice had a familiar condescension to it and John felt a hand softly stroking his head at the same time they were crawling on top of him and straddling him.

"Did we have too much to drink last night? You can't hide forever behind a drunken stupor." That manic giggle again and the person started stroking his face. John groaned. The hand felt good, and yet so wrong.

"You are far too clever to hide your depression behind pills, although I do envy the bevy of pain killers you have access too. I would like to hide my pain..." The voice faded and John's vision became clearer. He saw dark hair, beady black eyes that were looking at a point beyond John's head. The figured suddenly smiled. It was a crazed smile...

"Moriarty!" John's exclamation came out in a hoarse grunt, and Moriarty laughed as John struggled helplessly to get out from under the man.

"You'll never be able to move, Johnny boy, not until I want you to!" Moriarty ran a finger around John's hairline and down his jaw. John turned his face away and Jim grabbed his jaw, hard. "You are far too smart to fight -"

A surge of hate and adrenaline rushed through John's body as he managed to push Jim off of him, but his legs were still too weak to stand. He cursed them and what ever drug Moriarty had given him. He managed to scoot himself against a cabinet, a kitchen cabinet, his kitchen cabinet...his surroundings came into sharp focus and he shook his head. This was too realistic for a dream... If he was in the flat, where were Molly and Greg?

"They are sleeping soundly in the other room." Jim Moriarty shook his head and pouted. "They didn't put up a fight like I knew you would."

John frowned. He tried to figure out what disturbed him more; Jim's freakish ability to suddenly read his mind, or the fact that he toyed with his friends in their sleep. Then another thought came to John's mind.

Moriarty laughed.

"I can see why he kept you around. I can practically see the wheels turning in that funny little brain of yours, John." He knelt in front of John and pressed his finger on the doctors forehead. "Yes, I can hear what you are thinking. Yes I am supposed to be dead, or am I? Maybe Sherlock really isn't dead."

John squeezed his eyes shut. The similarities between Sherlock and Jim were astounding. Both geniuses, both bored, both misunderstood.

Jim started stroking John's hair again and John moved his head away.

"Oh Johnny boy, what's the matter? Isn't that what people do to their pets to encourage good behavior?" Jim moved in closer to John, his voice turning into liquid silk, wrapping itself around Johns brain.

"Isn't that what Sherlock did to you?" Moriarty's hand slipped down the front of John's body and grabbed his belt and tugged. John drew in a sharp breath and struggled to get away again. Moriarty only pulled harder and smirked, then leaned in so close that John could feel his body heat, and his breath on his ear. "Did he stroke your...ego?" Jim tugged on John's pants with every syllable.

Moriarty suddenly rocked back on his heels and put a hand to his mouth in mock surprise.

"Oh I forgot, he's a virgin!" He giggled maniacally and John groaned, the sound bouncing around in his head. He put a hand to his head and realized he was wearing his parka. He looked down at himself, there wasn't a bomb strapped to his chest, but there was a bright red dot over where his heart was.

"John, you were a good man..."

Jim Moriarty threw something at John, and a loud gunshot could be heard.

...

John woke up, the side of his face cold from laying on the kitchen floor. Trying to draw a deep breath proved almost impossible with the Sahara Desert-like conditions in his mouth.

'What the fuck was that?' He thought to himself as he wiggled his toes and fingers. Still had their feeling, that was a good thing too.

From his vantage point on the floor, John could see underneath the table. There was an astounding amount of chewing gum that John had never noticed before.

He closed his eyes to shift his brain into first gear. It hurt. His whole body hurt. Groaning, he opened his eyes and he had the same vantage point. John tried to lift himself up, but his arms weren't co-operating. He turned his head and closed his eyes and held his breath for a moment to calm the dizziness, and the nauseating feeling in his stomach. Opening his eyes slowly, a water bottle came into focus, and to John's relief, there was water in it. He slowly reached out for it, his shoulder and arm protesting the whole time. He didn't have his parka on, but he wondered why his shoulder and arm hurt so bad. Taking the rest of the water, he became aware of the rest of his body, and attempted to roll over onto his back. The ceiling was a parquet design that John had never noticed before. He laughed once, then propped himself onto his elbows, and squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness. After it passed, John sat all the way up, and groaned and wiped his face. The light from the window told him that it was day time and he looked down at his watch, that wasn't there. He took stock of the rest of himself. He was still dressed in the jeans and jumper and shirt he had on yesterday, except the shirt was un-tucked, and his shoes were M.I.A. as well. John glanced behind him and rested his hand on the back of the chair to pull himself up, when something on the floor, not three feet from him caught his eye. He reached for it. A square piece of white material that was trimmed with a silky gray thread. A handkerchief, John concluded and as he turned it over, the air was knocked out of his lungs. An 'M' was embroidered in the same gray silky thread as the trim.

"Holy shit," John whispered to himself. "Oh, what the hell is happening?"

John's brain and body finally aligned and were moving over to the window that overlooked the street. Nothing, just a sleek black car driving away. John then ran to the hall and down the stairs and saw Mrs. Hudson standing there, reading her posts from yesterday.

"Oh John, good to see you-"

"Mrs. Hudson," John managed between breaths. "Please, was there a man here just now?"

"Goodness, John, are you feeling okay? You look pale." She put a hand to Johns forehead and he gently took it and held it.

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, I need to know, was there a man here just now?"

The woman frowned at John. "Yes, and he was very sweet. And a sharp dresser as well. Oh and very polite with a handsome smile. He reminded me of someone i'd seen on the teley-"

"Richard Brook." John said as he squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, yes, that's it, John," she paused. "I haven't seen him in anything for quite a while."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." John clenched his jaw as he tried to smile.

"Anytime, dear," Mrs. Hudson started into her own flat as John made his way upstairs. "Would you like me to make you and your friends some tea?"

"No, thanks again," this time, John's smile came out more sincere.

When he walked back into the flat, he found that the door was unlocked, and shivered. Then he looked at the handkerchief again. It seemed pristine and snow white, but John knew better than that. He knew that Moriarty was the twisted, psychotic version of Sherlock.

John shook his head and stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He thought about how real his dream felt as he walked into the sitting room and found Greg sleeping on the couch. He looked undisturbed and John watched him for a moment to make sure he was actually sleeping. Cursing himself, he walked over and brought the blanket up to cover Greg's shoulders. John looked around. He couldn't remember if Molly had come back to the flat with them or not. Moriarty had mentioned her in his dream, but that didn't mean squat. He ran a hand through his hair as he searched for his phone which he found on the kitchen table. He dialed a number and walked over to his flat door and realized that it had been open when he ran through it the first time.

" 'Allo?" Came a raspy female voice on the other side.

"Molly, oh good Molly, are you okay?" John's words came out in a rushed jumble.

"Yeah, who is this? John?"

"Yes, sorry Molly," John was running his hand over the edge of the door and looking for signs of forced entry. "Are you okay?"

"Besides the train that's running through my head right now and feeling like I got run over by a bus, yes I'm fine." Molly paused, and John heard her groan. "Are you okay John?"

"Feeling 'bout the same as you," John examined the door latch closer. "You haven't received any visitors this morning have you?"

"John, it's not morning any more, at least not according to my alarm clock. And no, I haven't received any visitors. Are you sure you are okay John?"

"Yeah..." John pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and a shiver ran up his spine. "No, I had the strangest dream, and I think someone broke into the flat last night."

"What? God John, call the police or something!"

"No, we are fine, they didn't take anything. In fact, they left something."

"They...left something?" John could hear Molly taking a drink of something.

"Yeah, it's a monogrammed handkerchief. There's an 'M' in grey silk thread and it's trimmed with the same thread."

"Oh my God, that's one of Jim's! He let me borrow one, and I never got a chance to give it back to him."

John hummed. "Did you have it with you last night?"

"No, I have no reason to carry it with me." Molly went silent.

"Molly? Molly you still there?" John said after a couple beats.

"John, I have to go. There is someone at my door."

"No, Molly don't..."

The phone went dead.


	8. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Molly Mouse,
> 
> I still love your nose,  
> And I just wish to propose,  
> That we have a cup of coffee,  
> Just you and me.
> 
> It was not me on your table,  
> And I don't think you were able  
> To distinguish my blood  
> From that of Brooks.
> 
> So, now I wish to have coffee,  
> Meet me at our spot  
> A year from the date of the fall of your friend.
> 
> I know everything Miss Molly,  
> For without me you can't have Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem in the description belongs to me. The lyrics at the end DO NOT belong to me; they belong to Florence and the Machine and they are from the song that shares the title of my fan-fic.   
> Still not beta-read so if you see any glaring grammar or plot errors, please let me know! I take criticism well, when it is delivered well!

Molly felt her heart leap into her throat when she heard the knock at the door. Her phone buzzed a call and she ignored it. She shuffled her feet into her slippers and threw her robe on as she dropped her phone into her pocket. She took a deep breath and walked toward her front door. Another knock gave her a start as she covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming. Molly imagined many frightful things, especially after the phone call she received from John. She squeezed her eyes shut and her hand hovered over the door knob. She regretted not buying the door with windows or a peephole after Sherlock destroyed the last door in an experiment.

The man on her doorstep was in the middle of knocking again when Molly opened the door.

"Oh, hello," He said as he smiled. He was handsome enough,with reddish blond hair and bright green eyes. Molly would have been enamored, if she hadn't been frightened. "You are home."

"Um, yes. Who are you?" Molly asked as he pulled her robe closer to herself.

"Terribly sorry," He smiled again. He had a crooked incisor, Molly noted. It was kind of endearing. Like Jim's clumsiness, or Sherlock's kisses. She bit her lip to try to keep herself from blushing. "I'm your new neighbor, Craig. Moved in just last week."

He held his hand out and Molly took it, hesitantly.

"I don't remember seeing you moving your stuff." Molly leaned forward and peeked at the house next door. "I don't remember the neighbors moving out."

"Heh, well, we all get busy once in a while. They left this package with me on Friday and I happened to be home." Craig held out the non-descript package. "You must be Molly Hooper, I hope?"

"Erm, yes. This was delivered on Friday?" Molly asked as she took the package from him.

"Yes ma'am." He said as he shivered and rubbed his arms. The snow from the previous evening had stuck around and Molly hadn't noticed until then how her breath came out in little puff clouds. "Late Friday afternoon, I believe. I remember because I had just come in from the airport."

"Thank you," Molly should have been weary of people; with the events of the past year, her people skills had been put to the test. She enjoyed working in the Morgue. Dead people can't talk back. So, when the words came out, they surprised her, "Ah...would you like to come in for a cuppa?"

Molly wasn't sure if it was just her imagination, but Craig's face positively lit up after her suggestion.

"It's the least I could do for you keeping my package all weekend."

"I would love too," He said as he walked through her doorway after she stepped aside. "I don't know anyone in this neighborhood. Been too busy moving and with my job and everything-"

Molly's phone interrupted them. "Sorry," She could feel her cheeks getting red as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. "I should take this. Make yourself comfortable, I won't be long." She made her way into her kitchen as Craig nodded and smiled at her.

"Molly!" John's voice was loud and she held her phone away from her ear. She set the package on her kitchen table. "Thank God you are okay."

"Yes John," Molly switched the phone to her other hand as she started the tea. "I'm alright. It was just my neighbor at the door. No need to worry, but thank you."

"Yes, you are welcome." She could hear him blow out a breath.

"How are you, John? Besides the dream and all that? And how is Greg?"

"I have a headache and my body hurts from sleeping on the kitchen floor, but other than that I'm fine, thank you. Greg is still fast asleep on the couch."

"Why did you sleep on -"

"Need any help in here?" Craig's voice startled Molly as she gasped.

"You alright, Molly?" John asked.

"Oh, sorry didn't mean to give you a fright." Craig asked at the same time. He grabbed her elbow to steady her. His smile was comforting.

"Th-Thank you, both of you. John I should be going. I'll talk to you later."

They said their good-byes and Molly turned to pour the water into the cups.

"Sorry 'bout that." She set the water back on its plate and handed a cup to Craig. "A couple friends and I got kinda rowdy last night. Needed a break and we let loose. Mmm..." She put a hand to her temple.

"I see you got a little rowdy too, eh?" Craig gestured with his cup at her then took a sip of the tea.

"It didn't hit me until now." Molly set down her teacup. "Will you excuse me? I'm going to take an aspirin."

"Of course." Craig nodded at her.

Molly winced at herself when she saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair stuck out of it's ponytail at odd angles and she had the darkest circles under her eyes. She knew it was a combination of her makeup and tiredness, but mostly the latter. She grabbed an aspirin out of her cabinet then reworked her ponytail. She splashed some water on her face and smelled her breath. 'Oh God.' And brought out her toothbrush. She paused in the middle of brushing.

"What am I doing?" She whispered to her reflection. "I have no one to impress. I like Greg, don't I?"

She closed her eyes and moaned, then rinsed and wiped her mouth. Biting her lip, she walked back into the kitchen and found Craig pacing and talking in a low, angry voice on his phone. Molly caught one word, but ignored it.

Craigs demeanor changed in a heartbeat when he saw Molly. She raised her eyebrows as he gave her his most charming smile. She smiled back.

"Listen, thank you for the tea." Craig said after cutting the call. He stood in front of her and placed his hand on her elbow again, making wide circles with his fingers. "If you don't mind, I don't know many people in the neighborhood, would you like to have dinner, at my place?"

"I-I would love to," The words came out before Molly could stop them.

"Well, great then. Seven o'clock, my place. I look forward to chatting with you Miss Molly Hooper." He smiled widely and nodded at her. He then turned on his heel and let himself out before Molly could say anything.

Toby was suddenly at her feet, rubbing against her legs and meowing.

"I don't know who he was, Toby," Molly said as she bent to pick up the cat. "But he had lots of charm. Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?"

She snuggled her face into his soft fur and the package that Craig brought over caught her eye. She let the cat jump out of her arms and she reached for her tea and walked over to her kitchen table. After taking a sip, she picked up the package and examined the plain brown paper wrap. She recognized the handwriting that her address had been written in, but she couldn't place where she had seen it before. There weren't any other markings anywhere on the package.

"Well, nothing left to do but to open it." Molly said as she peeked at Toby who ignored her as he groomed himself. She hummed to herself as she grabbed scissors out of her junk drawer and sliced the tape on the package. Under all of the brown packaging was a faded yellow box, again non-descript and no words. Molly's heart started to beat faster. She shook the box near her ear. It felt and sounded wobbly. She sliced the tape on the box and opened the lid. On the inside was a coffee cup. It had a stylized capital 'M' on it with a crown on one side. On the other, in tiny stylized words, it said 'Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.'

Molly gasped.

Jim. From IT.

There was a note attached to the handle with a red ribbon. With her shaking hands, she took the piece of card stock from inside the cup and unfolded it and read it.

"Miss Molly Mouse,  
I still love your nose,  
And I just wish to propose,  
That we have a cup of coffee,  
Just you and me.

It was not me on your table,  
And I don't think you were able  
To distinguish my blood  
From that of Brooks.

So, now I wish to have coffee,  
Meet me at our spot  
A year from the date of the fall of your friend.  
I know everything Miss Molly,

For without me you can't have Sherlock."

Molly's unsteady hands dropped the mug and it shattered on her kitchen floor. The tears that she had been holding back for so long finally came barreling down her cheeks. She backed herself into her refrigerator and slid down, hugging her knees to her chest.

~*XXX*~

John sipped at his third cup of tea and had already taken three aspirin's when he heard Greg's moan coming from the living room. John had planted himself at the kitchen table, rubbing his temples and reveling in the blessing of a quiet Baker Street on a Sunday afternoon. He drew in a deep breath and pushed himself slowly from the table and stood. He managed to move now without getting dizzy. John turned on the coffee pot and leaned against the counter. He looked around the kitchen. It had taken on his personality; charming, neat and missing Sherlock. He sighed and heard another moan and possibly Greg attempting to talk. John smirked to himself and poured a cup and grabbed a water bottle from the refrigerator. When he walked into the living room, John had a hard time suppressing a giggle. Greg had one arm flung over his face and one leg up on the couch and the other haphazardly dangling off the edge of the couch. He set the beverages on the coffee table and knelt next to the couch.

"Greg," John said just loud enough for the D.I. To hear, but soft enough not to hurt. He only snorted and shifted.

"Greg, you need to wake up. It's two in the afternoon."

"Mmmm...no," Was all he said as he turned away from John.

"Greg, I have coffee and water for you."

"Say you have a Bloody Mary and I might consider turning over."

"I have a Bloody Mary." John chuckled.

"Nope."

"C'mon Greg. You just need to drink some coffee and and have a shower. It's amazing..."

"John, oh dear, John!" Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed up the stairs to them.

"Oh lord, that woman is loud." Greg mumbled.

"John, have you read today's paper, dear?" Mrs. Hudson stood at John's door holding the opinion page in her hands. John cocked his head as the picture first caught his eye. It was a black silhouette of Sherlock with a yellow spray painted line through where his eyes would be. They were pictures of the flyers that Raz had been planting around the city. There were two more that were similar; one was Sherlock's full body profile in black with a blue line through his head and a silhouette of what looked like Moriarty's head and a red line though where his eyes would be. Then John read the headline.

'Believe in Sherlock. Moriarty was real. Richard Brook was a Fake.'

Then right below:

'Have John Watson's words sparked a movement?'

"What the bloody hell?" John said as he stood and took the paper as Mrs. Hudson handed it to him.

"What? What happened?" Greg turned over and instantly regretted it. John and his landlady watched as his face turned slightly green. He stood and ran to the bathroom.

"Oh my, is he going to be alright?"

"Yes, he will be in a few minutes." John smiled and went back to reading the article.

"You boys had a wild night last night. Oh, where did you find Sherlock's skull?" Mrs. Hudson stood in front of the mantle, gesturing to the skull and straightening the books next to it.

John furrowed his brow and walked over to the mantle.

"I...we didn't find it." John stared at the silly item, it's hollow eyes staring back, mocking him.

"Well, I think it's lovely that it's back, even if it's a bit...creepy." Mrs. Hudson shivered. "Would you boys like some tea?"

"Huh? Yeah sure." John was so engrossed in his own thoughts, he didn't notice that Greg had come out of the bathroom, running a hand through his hair.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you have any aspirin or painkillers, or a sledgehammer to knock me out?" Greg whispered.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson put a kind hand on Greg's upper arm. "I have a concoction that I used to make for my late husband that would cure him of his ails. I'll be right back."

"Mmnnn...thanks," Greg attempted a smile and put his hand to his temple and sat back on the couch.

John, in the meantime, studied the mantle. Somehow it had changed overnight. There was the obvious skull and Christmas lights lit up the small space. On the right hand side of the mantle was the knife used to hold whatever random thing Sherlock wanted to stay in place, not holding anything now. He ran his fingers along the cold metal. He felt as if this was a representation of him right now; a knife through the heart and still standing. John sighed loudly. The past couple days were a blur, and he started to wonder if any of it was real.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson's voice broke into his reverie. He looked at the mantle one more time, knowing that something was missing, not able to put a finger on it. "Do you like the lights I put up? I did it while you boys were out and about last night. I hope you don't mind."

"No, it's perfect Mrs. Hudson." John gave her his best smile as she put the tray down on to the coffee table. He walked over to see what she had brought.

"Most of this is for this poor bloke," she pointed her thumb at Greg. "But I think you could use it as well."

"It looks like plain ol' tea and biscuits,"

"The secret is in the biscuits. They are my special batch. I would make them whenever Mr. Hudson got into the bottle. Those and that tea and a nap and he would be right as rain."

John raised his eyebrows. He rarely heard Mrs. Hudson talk about her husband.

"Greg," She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as he started awake. "Oh I didn't mean to startle you."

"Hmm...Yeah...oh it hurts to talk..." Greg rubbed his eyes.

"Well, munch on these and drink some of that tea and you'll be feeling better in no time, sweetie! I've got to finish decorating my flat. I'll be up later if you dears want yours decorated."

"Mmm...thank you Mrs. Hudson. That would be fine." John said as he read the article and waved at Mrs. Hudson as she left the flat.

John spent the rest of the day researching the reporter behind the article that Mrs. Hudson had pointed out earlier and taking care of Greg. Mrs. Hudson popped in from time to time to decorate and found Greg sleeping most of the day.

The door buzzer gave John a start that evening and Greg stirred on the couch. John listened and heard Mrs. Hudson answer the door and went back to the article that he had found.

"John, Greg," Mrs. Hudson called as she came up the stairs. "Look who came over!"

"Hello Molly," John said as he stood and took Molly's jacket. "Must be snowing pretty hard now. Your jacket is damp."

"Oh, yes, it's very pretty out there." Molly said as she fluffed her hair.

"Would you like some tea dear?"

"Oh no don't bother Mrs.-"

"Oh it's no bother," The elder woman waved the younger woman off and left the room before Molly could protest more.

"Has he been sleeping all day?" Molly asked as she pointed at Greg.

"Yup. I don't think he'll be drinking again for quite a while." John said as he crossed his arms and regarded Molly. "What did you do to your hand?"

Molly bit her lip and shook her head as she held her bandaged right hand in her left hand. "I don't want to talk about it."

"At least let me look at it?"

Molly opened her mouth to protest, but gave in and sighed. "Alright."

"Molly, this is pretty deep," John said a few minutes later after he removed her bandage. They had moved into the kitchen. "You need stitches."

"John, don't exaggerate." Molly said as she tried to pull her hand from him. John only tightened his grip. She gasped at the serious look on his face.

"I'm not exaggerating. Let me get my kit and I will fix it up for you." They stood staring at each other as Molly tried unsuccessfully to pull her hand out of John's grip.

"Fine," she looked away from his intense gaze.

"You're not going to tell me what happened are you?" John said ten minutes later as he was stitching her hand.

"I...nngghh..." Molly Clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. The shot of whiskey had worked to dull the pain, but not kill it completely.

"Sorry, just two more...there done!" Molly watched John's hands as he tied and cut the ends of the thread off with quick and steady hands.

"Okay bite down on this." He handed her what looked like a Popsicle stick. "I'm going to dab some alcohol on here and it's going to hurt like a son of a bitch."

Molly nodded as she put the stick between her teeth and bit down, hard. She howled through her clenched teeth as he gently dabbed her stitches.

"Sorry, do you want a painkiller or another shot?" John said as he wrapped her hand with clean bandages.

"Can I have both?"

John chuckled. "As a doctor, I don't recommend it. But i've suffered no ill side-effects from it, so yes."

"Thank you, John." She gave him a weak smile.

"You're still not going to tell me what happened are you?"

"I...This morning, my neighbor delivered a package to me, saying that the delivery people left it with him because I wasn't home. When I opened the package," She pulled Jim's note out of her pocket and handed it to John. "This along with a coffee mug were inside."

John collapsed against the kitchen counter as he read the note. "My God, Molly. That sick twisted bastard."

"I cut my hand cleaning the pieces of the mug after I had dropped it." Molly paused and sniffed. "It really creeped me out because of the dream you said you had and the handkerchief."

John's head was swimming. He pulled the handkerchief out of his own pocket then set them down on the counter. He grabbed the whiskey and took a slug then handed it to Molly who took one herself.

"We should keep quiet about this for now. I'll go and get those meds." john slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket and walked to his room.

Molly took a deep breath and replaced the lid on the whiskey and shivered. She grabbed Jim's note and walked into the living room. She gently laid a hand on Greg's shoulder and he stirred. She knelt and whispered his name. He turned his head and opened one eye, then the other, and a smile lit up his face.

"Molly, it's good to see you." He said as he stretched. "Oh, I think death had it's hand on me for a moment. I feel like shite." He put a hand to his head.

Molly returned his smile as she sat on the edge of the couch. Greg sighed and made room for her and then surprised her when he wrapped his arms around her and snuggled his face into her back. Molly threw John a look of helplessness as he entered the room with eyebrows raised. He handed Molly a couple of pills.

"Here's some tea dears." Mrs. Hudson said in her sing-song voice as she walked into the room with a tray in her hands.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you have any water on that tray?" Greg's voice was muffled.

"Yes I do dear," She handed the bottle of water to Molly who took a drink to wash down the pills, then handed it to Greg who slowly lifted his head.

"What ever that was you made for me earlier Mrs. Hudson, is working wonders." Greg said and took another drink of the water, then continued. "But I don't think I'm gonna be drinkin' that much anytime soon. I think I drank so much I saw ghosts."

Greg rubbed his head and eyes and took another drink. He felt Molly stiffen beside him. He found everyone staring at him, like he had grown a third head.

"What? What did I say?"

"You said you thought you saw ghosts." John said as he shifted his weight. His leg was starting to bother him again.

"I only meant that I had a dream of Sherlock," Greg paused. "Crazy thing to dream about. But I dreamed that he had gotten out of a taxi, your taxi John, and he nodded at me and walked away. Then I dreamed I saw him here last night, tip-toeing like a thief. I remember I started to talk to him, but he shushed me, then left. Crazy bastard."

John opened his mouth to say something and suddenly remembered what had gone missing. He looked over at the mantle and stared hard at the glowing lights.

"The scarf," He blurted out. "The damned scarf is missing."

"What's that, John?" Mrs. Hudson said.

"Oh, yeah, that crazy bastard had his scarf in his hands, too." Greg said and took a sip of the tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought Molly.

"Well, those are some wild dreams, Greg." Mrs. Hudson said. She shivered and pulled her sweater closer to herself. "But I vaguely remember having to move a scarf when I put those lights up there. And if I remember right, the bloody thing looked exactly like Sherlock's."

"What did you do with it, Mrs. Hudson?" John stood in front of the woman, grabbing her by her forearms.

"Oh dear, John, I... well I don't quite remember...but I believe that I had draped it over She-...his chair." Mrs. Hudson pointed at Sherlock's black chair. Everyone looked, nothing there. Molly bit her lip and looked back at John. His face was white and his eyes were hollow and sad.

"I need some air." John said suddenly as he walked out of the flat.

"John you need your coat." Mrs. Hudson called, but John ignored her.

"Oh dear." She said as she wrung her hands. "You kids have a good evening. I should be getting to bed."

Greg and Molly watched as she followed the same path as John did out of the flat. They also listened to make sure she didn't follow. They both let out a breath when they realized she hadn't followed.

Molly heard Greg let out a moan and she turned to look at him as she rested her hand on his thigh. He was leaning back and his arm was thrown over his face.

"Greg?"

"I'm sorry Molly," Greg said as he slowly lifted his arm and faced Molly. His coffee brown eyes were full of worry and sadness and the bags underneath were a representation of the baggage he carried around. "I'm really not much for conversation tonight."

Molly saw him smile, but it didn't touch his eyes. She gave him a half smile and patted his thigh. "It's okay, I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay over here. I should-"

She stood but Greg wrapped his hand around her wrist and pulled her back down to the couch.

"Greg, I shou-"

"Molly, what's bothering you?" He gently brushed her hair behind her ear and his hand lingered on her cheek.

She sucked in air sharply and bit her lip to keep her emotions in check. "I'm fine, really...just everything these past couple days, it's been so overwhelming."

"We are here for you Molly," Greg somehow closed the gap between them. "And I hope that one day, we can all tell each other the truth. Until then, we will have to trust each other."

Molly found it hard to breath all of a sudden as she felt Greg's hand snake to the back of her neck and pull her to him. His lips were soft on hers as it took a minute for her to even comprehend the kiss. She felt him start to pull away and knowing that he felt her hesitation, she closed whatever space there was between them.

John had walked to the end of the block, listening to the crunch of snow under his boots and the muffled sounds of the city.

"Concentrate..."

It was like the city was speaking to him. But it was a distinct voice, clear as day and it had stopped him in his tracks. He looked around. The only real movement was the cross street another block away. John peeked around the corner and thought he saw movement at the end of the next block. He was too far away to check it out but as he turned around, a set of footprints caught his eye. He followed them around the corner and realized that they led to the next block. John also saw that they doubled back on themselves. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. He stood like that for a minute, listening to the pulse of the night, feeling the cold, fluffy flakes land on his face. He then blew out a puff of air.

"One more time, Sherlock. I would give anything to hear you talk, see your face, watch you move around the apartment..."

Silence was his answer.

He knew better. Everything he had experienced yesterday had been a dream; or a drunken run-in with a total stranger, a stranger with Sherlock's scarf.


	9. Castle of Glass

The next morning, John found himself sitting in Dr. Sarah Sawyer's office, waiting for her to be done with an early morning patient. He had been woken earlier that morning by her call asking him to come in and work. The call surprised him, considering they hadn't had any contact for quite a while. He fought with his feelings, not sure that he wanted to see Sarah after all that time. Another voice in his head told him to go. This would be good for him.

As he waited, his mind wandered to Molly and Greg. When he had returned to the flat last evening, John found them snuggling on the couch. He could tell from the way they were positioned on the couch they had been making out, but stopped when they heard John. He smirked at them as he made his way up to his room.

"What are you doing?" John caught Molly, that morning, in the process of sneaking out when he came down to make coffee.

"I, um, have to be to work early this morning." John cold tell she was lying. She wouldn't make eye contact as she threw on her jacket.

"You're not going to say goodbye?" John said as she started to leave.

She turned around and walked back to John and hugged him. "Thank you, John."

John could hear the tremor in her voice and as she pulled away she had a nervous smile on her lips. Molly held up her hand. "I'll make sure I take care of this."

"Molly, that's not what I meant." John grabbed her arm. When she finally met his gaze, her big brown eyes were full of a deep sadness that was all too familiar to John

"John, I don't know what to think. The last few months have all been a blur, and now with Greg, I don't know what to do. The man's not even divorced and I was snogging with him on your couch."

She sniffed and wiped her nose. John watched the tears well up in her eyes and his heart lurched into his throat.

"I...I think I love him John, but I wouldn't handle it if he didn't feel the same way..." She paused. "I'm sorry but I can't..."

"You have to at least say good bye to him."

He could see Molly's chin trembling and a tear ran down her cheek. Then she turned and ran out of the flat.

"Sorry 'bout that. She just need-" Sarah's voice interrupted John's reverie. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes, fine. I'm fine." John gave her a small smile.

"Okay," Sarah paused and a look of concern came over her pretty face. When John didn't continue, she shuffled the papers on her desk to one pile on the side. "Anyway, thank you for coming, I wasn't sure if you would even return my call."

"I was honestly surprised when your number popped up on my phone." John paused and shifted in his seat. "I suppose I owe you an apology for not keeping in touch since you called a couple of months ago. Thank you for that."

"I had to know if you were okay." She paused and smiled back at him. "How are you holding up?"

John drew in a deep breath. "I'm surviving. I am glad you called. It'll be good to get back into the practice again, if you'll have me."

"Just as long as you don't fall asleep." She winked at him.

"I had some coffee this morning, and depending on how the day goes, I'll probably need some this afternoon."

"I'm down two people, even after calling you in, so you will definitely need that second coffee!" She laughed and it made John smile, a true genuine smile; something that he hadn't done in a very long time. He leaned forward and rested his hand on hers. She looked at him wide-eyed.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

He pursed his lips. "For giving me a second chance. I don't know if I would have if I was in your shoes."

"John, I thrive on second chances." She smiled and the light hit her eyes just right and John's heart suddenly decided to stop for a brief moment. "Okay, let's get going!"

"Concentrate..."

Greg's eyes flew open and he sat upright on the couch. He was breathless as he looked around, not seeing anyone in the flat. However the curtain moved just enough, like a small breeze had swept through.

He put his head in his hands, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Damn if it didn't sound like Sherlock..."

Greg looked around again and realized there was something missing.

"Molly..." He said as he stood and walked into the kitchen. He found a note next to the coffee pot.

'Greg,

I received a call from Dr. Sawyers office requesting my services. I'll tell you about her later. I made this pot this morning, so it should still be good. Molly had to leave early to go to work. We need to pick up groceries if you plan on staying for a while. I'll text you when I'm off, we can meet for a pint.

John.'

"She didn't say good bye..."

"What's that dear?" Mrs. Hudson's voice startled him.

"Oh, right. Good morning Mrs. Hudson."

"Good morning, Greg. Will you be staying long?" The landlady said as she started picking up coffee mugs.

"Sorry, I thought John told you."

"Told me what, dear?" Mrs. Hudson said as she filled the sink with water.

"Um, that I'm staying until I can find a place of my own."

"Oh, that's great, dear, but I was wondering if you were going to be here very long this morning? I was going to make you some coffee and breakfast, but I see coffee was already made." She refreshed Greg's cup and he nodded his thanks.

"Yeah, looks like John made some before he left."

"Left? For where?" She said as she washed John's mug and whatever dishes were in the sink.

"I guess a Dr. Sawyer called him and needed him at her practice." He read off the note and took a drink of his coffee.

"Oh, she's such a nice girl. I'm glad that you are sticking around. It was getting quiet with just John around. Plus I-" She paused in the middle of rinsing the mugs. The other looked at her expectantly.

"Everything okay?"

"Well, I probably shouldn't say anything, being the kind of man that John is, but..." Mrs. Hudson chewed her thumb. "I would hear him crying late at night. Plus, there are some nights he wakes with night terrors. It scares me to pieces, and the first time it happened, I raced up here and found him in a tizzy, racing around the flat. Oh, Greg, it was awful." She bit her lip and looked off into the distance as if remembering something.

"Mrs. Hudson, has he had anything of the sort lately?" Greg asked as he dried the cups and put them in the cupboard.

"Oh, no dear. The last one I can remember was about a week ago." She grabbed the coffee pot and gestured at Greg. "Do you want the rest of this?"

"No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Listen, I will have my share of the rent to you in the next few days, I promise." He patted her on the arm.

"Thank you!" She called as he bounded out of the room. "And I'm not your housekeeper!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson.

Greg had called Molly twice already. Once before he went into the shower and another as he walked out of the flat. He didn't want to seem desperate, but he also wanted to know why she had left with out at least waking him. He understood that she was in a hurry to leave, but still...

He tapped his phone against his chin as he watched the London scenery pass by as he sat in the cab. He was going to enjoy living in the city if it meant having this view everyday. He even debated selling his car; but he enjoyed the freedom of that too much. He groaned softly, thinking about what a debacle getting his car from his old place would be. Greg looked at his phone and gritted his teeth. He would get a hold of Molly, even if it meant storming down her front door.

'What the hell,' he thought as he shook his head. He had never had a woman affect him quite this much; not since when him and his wife first started dating. Even then, he couldn't remember having such strong feelings. What was it about Molly? She wasn't his type; she had long red hair that was soft; he generally preferred blondes. Molly had deep brown eyes that were either smiling or full of nervous tension. He generally preferred blue eyes. She was curvy in all the right places, soft to the touch and smelled like raspberries.

Greg rubbed his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. He was starting to think thoughts that would make Molly blush.

There was another thing. That bright smile that could take down a thousand empires.

"Hey, this is your stop." The cabbies voice brought him out of his reverie.

"Yep, thanks," Greg said as he paid the cab driver and stepped out of the cab. Greg's breath came out in little white puffs as he looked up at the building in front of him. The cold and gray building blended into the cold and gray London air as Greg sighed and stepped forward to his fate.

Molly frowned at her phone as Greg called for the second time. She had just stepped out of the shower and a second wave of guilt washed over her. Her thumb hovered over the answer button when the call went to voice-mail. She chewed at her lip and thought of all the scenarios that would happen between them and none of them were good.

But last night was good. He knew all the places to touch and kiss and if Molly had been more prepared, and they hadn't been on Sher-...

"Damn. Damn. Damn you Sherlock." She put the phone down and continued drying herself.

How many times had she imagined herself with Sherlock on that couch? Too many to count, for sure. But, they weren't as soft, they weren't as loving as Greg had been last night. They were awkward and scary, like his personality, always in control, dominating her in every way, not letting her touch him, at all. The thought still turned her on, but not as much as thinking about Greg's touches and the way he kissed-

The ringing of Molly's phone brought her out of her daydreams. She found that she still wasn't dry as she checked the number. It wasn't one she recognized and she let it go to voice mail.

"Focus Molly Hooper, focus." She told her reflection as she finished drying herself. She took the bandages off of her hand and tugged at the stitches underneath and hissed. Cursing under her breath she grabbed her rubbing alcohol from under the sink and a wash cloth. Biting her lip, Molly poured a little onto the wash cloth and dabbed it onto the stitches.

'Damn you, Jim,' she screamed into her towel.

Molly argued with herself as she finished dressing to take her mind off the pain, and came to the damning conclusion that she really does like Greg Lestrade. Her confession of love for him to John earlier might have been a bit strong, but so were her feelings for him. Molly only hoped that his feelings were just as strong, and he wasn't using her to get over his soon to be ex-wife.

Molly sighed and finished her coffee and grabbed her things and locked her door. As she descended the stairs on her front porch, she spied a flyer on the ancient gas lamp on the sidewalk in front of her house. As she drew closer, she saw what looked like the profile of Sherlock and over the eyes was a stripe of yellow. In the yellow were the words "BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK". She glanced down the sidewalk and saw that there were other fliers on the other lamps.

"Molly! Good morning! Aren't these crazy?" Craig's voice startled her and he apologized as he helped her pick up her things.

"Yes, they are...interesting."

"Is this the first time you're seeing one of these?"

"I've seen fliers on the poles and lamps around town, but I've never paid attention to them. And I've never seen fliers in this neighborhood."

"Well, maybe we'll have to go on a quick drive after dinner tonight, if that's okay?" Craig adjusted his glasses. "We are still on for tonight?"

"I- yes." Molly gave him a small smile, trying not to stare at his fascinating blue eyes.

"Great, some over at six-thirty and I will take you to a couple places that have some gorgeous graffiti dedicated to this brilliant man." He gave her a dazzling smile.

"You knew Sherlock?" She cocked her head at him.

"No, I've only read about him and his amazing talents. I don't think he was a fake. I have my own crazy theories. It's too bad that tabloid had to make him look like a mad man...What?"

Molly was awestruck.

"Sorry, I've just never met anyone who didn't know him well, to believe in him."

"So, you knew Sherlock?"

"I-I worked with him at Bart's morgue, he would come down and experiment and run tests at the lab." Molly swallowed hard and looked away. "I was angry at that tabloid for a long time for portraying him in that light. Still am actually."

"I'm sorry Molly, I didn't know." Craig touched her elbow.

"It's alright." She waved him off and sniffed. She hated getting emotional in front of strangers. "I should get going."

"Yes, 6:30. Don't forget!" He started to walk away. "I want to know more about the amazing Sherlock Holmes!"

She smiled halfheartedly. 'Don't we all.'

"Where are you?" Mycroft said as he sat in front of his large fire-place.

"Now, that wouldn't be playing fair, would it?" Sherlock's voice echoed from the phone.

"Don't, Sherlock. John almost saw you again last night. You need to -"

"I wasn't in London last night."

Silence hung thick in the air as Mycroft considered his brothers words.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, I see." Mycroft took a sip of his scotch.

"Are your camera's malfunctioning, brother? Or are there ghosts on Baker Street?"

The elder Holmes detected amusement in his brothers tone and frowned at the fireplace. "I need you to tread carefully, Sherlock. I can't afford to have you traipsing across Europe in a blaze of glory."

"Hmm...no need to worry about me. I can take care of my self, remember?"

Mycroft flexed his jaw at Sherlock's icy tone. "I do remember, dear brother. Please don't have a debacle like that again. I can't watch you if you are off the grid."

"Maybe that's what I want! Maybe, just maybe, dear brother, it's what I need. If I was off the grid, I could get into just as many places as you can. As someone once told me, in a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king."

"Do not take that tone with me! I need you safe and alive or-"

"Or what? Your plan is shot? I have a plan as well, and my own team to watch my back." Sherlock paused. "I have watchers on Baker Street as well, Mycroft. Don't think I don't know what's going on there."

"If you decide to fly to America, I have the necessary clearance for you."

Another moment of silence lingered over the brothers, until Sherlock cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Sherlock hung up and looked out of the window of the train headed to Moscow. America was his destination eventually. Unfinished business awaited him in Russia.


	10. Conductor of Light

London was blanketed in snow for most of November and December. On December 24th, Mother Nature wasn't going to let up, and the snow kept falling. The residents of London couldn't remember the last time he saw so much snow. It was a change from the grey fog, however Greg Lestrade regretted the decision not to sell his car. He got along okay, but London was not prone to such weather and most of the city folk couldn't handle the slick backstreets. John just laughed at him most times when he would come back to the flat, cursing the way people drove. 

Greg also signed a six month lease with Mrs. Hudson, telling her that, even though it wasn't all that convenient, it was nice to have a place in the city to call 'home' until he could find a place of his own. Plus, being surrounded by friends was good for him. His divorce was in it's final stages, and the Department big wigs decided to give him three months leave to regroup and get his life together. His biggest hurdle now was Molly. They had only talked briefly four times in November and December. Between divorce hearings and Molly being unusually busy at St. Bart's, they barely had time to speak, let alone see each other. 

When Greg woke on Christmas Eve, he felt displaced and very lonely. He was used to having his wife kiss him awake and give him a gift. Even last Christmas had been a happy one, despite finding out about the P.E. Teacher. He sighed and stretched and swung his long legs off the couch then rubbed his face. John had offered him Sherlock's room, but he couldn't quite bring himself to sleep in there yet. Greg didn't miss the look of relief that came over John's face when he declined. 

“Observe...”

The whisper came like clockwork now. It happened on any random day, but it would be the same time, every time. 

Except this time, 'the voice' said a different word and Greg raised his head and looked around the flat. He could hear John stirring in his room upstairs, but nothing else. Only the dust motes shone in the morning sun streaming through the window. Greg felt a chill run down his spine and grabbed his robe off the back of the couch and stood and threw it on. He listened as he tied his robe, then started for the kitchen. He grabbed everything to make coffee then leaned against the counter as it brewed and looked around the small kitchen. 

“Good morning,” John said, his voice groggy. 

“Mornin'.” Greg answered. 

“Have you fetched the news yet?” 

“Nope.” 

“'Kay,” 

Greg smirked as John yawned and walked drowsily out of the kitchen. That was the most morning conversation they had had in a long time. He poured himself and John a cup and cleared a couple of spots at the table. Him and John had gone through the flat at the end of November when Greg decided that he was going to be staying there, and they cleaned and tidied up the place. Mrs. Hudson had gone through like she had said and donated all of Sherlock's science stuff to the local schools. There were only a few items left that had Sherlock's touch to them, and Greg agreed to leave them. The skull with the earphones on the wall, the lithograph skull on the blue background, (Greg had always like that picture anyway) and the skull on the mantle. That hadn't moved since the night it had reappeared on the mantle. John was still confused about the situation with the skull. He didn't push the issue with Molly when ever he saw her, which wasn't often. 

“Thanks for the coffee,” John said as he sat down and unfolded the paper, handing Greg the opinion and comics page. “By the way, did I mention that Harry is coming this evening?” 

“Oh? Not sure if I’ve ever met your sister.” Greg said then took a sip of his coffee. 

“Hmm...not many people have.”

“Good morning dears!” Mrs Hudson's cheery voice echoed through the flat. 

“Good morning Mrs. Hudson.” Greg and John said, simultaneously. 

“I brought you boys a little Christmas Eve breakfast. I hope you don't mind.” Mrs. Hudson set a small tray down in the middle of the table as the two men mumbled their gratitude. 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, wow,” Greg said when he laid eyes on the crumpets and jam and toast and pancakes.

John folded his newspaper. “Thank you, but you didn't have to do this.”

“I know, but I used to do it for Sherlock all the time and I didn't get a chance to do it last year, so I might have gone a bit overboard this time.” 

“These are heavenly,” Greg said around a mouthful of Crumpet.

“Now Greg, don't talk with your mouthful.” 

Greg nodded and John smirked. He loved his land lady's motherly ways.

“Do we know how many people are coming tonight?” Mrs. Hudson said as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“Well, Harry's coming-”

“Oh, it'll be nice to meet your sister.” Mrs. Hudson said as she sat at the table.

“Thanks. I invited Sarah and Mike Stamford, but I don't think he'll come.”

“Will Molly be coming Greg? She's such a sweet dear.”

“I don't know. I invited her, but I haven't gotten a response.” Greg said without looking up from reading his paper. John furrowed his brow at him.

“Are you two not getting along?”

“We don't talk much.” Was all Greg said.

John and his landlady looked at each other, knowingly. 

“Well, I have a special recipe I want to try and I was wondering how much to make. I am missing some key ingredients and I was hoping that one of you dears would go to the store for me. I have to get my baking started.”

“Yeah, I could do that for you.” John responded as Mrs. Hudson handed him her list. 

“Thank you John. You are sweet.” Mrs. Hudson stood and kissed him on the cheek. 

“Heh, thanks Mrs. Hudson.” John blushed and Greg snorted at him. 

“Huh, here's another article on the 'Believe in Sherlock' Movement.” Greg handed John the section that he was reading as Mrs. Hudson rinsed her cup and excused herself. 

“Oh this is interesting,” John said after reading part of the article. “This reporter interviewed Raz.”

“Who?”

“The kid behind the fliers and the graffiti. Talented kid. Used an alias and refused to be photographed for his own protection. Smart kid, too.”

“Then how do you know it's him?” Greg asked as he spread some jam on a slice of toast.

“Sherlock introduced me to him on one of our cases, and I ran into him putting up the fliers one evening.” John went on to read the rest of the article and was about to put the paper down, when a name in another article caught his eye. Lyudmilla Diachenkov. He repeated the name in his head, trying to remember where he had heard that name. He read the article that contained the name. 

'Russian assassin Lyudmilla Diachenkov was found and arrested in Moscow yesterday. Experts aren't saying, but it is speculated that she was part of a ring of assassins assigned by Jim Moriarty to assassinate high public figures. '

 

“What the hell?” John said as he placed the paper on the table and stared at it. 

“What's wrong?” Greg looked up at John.

“Um, nothing. I should run that errand for Mrs. Hudson before the shops close.” John threw Greg a small smile and tucked the paper under his arm and left the table. 

 

The bitter cold air hit John hard as he stepped out of the flat. His breath came out in one long white puff and he pulled his jacket closer to himself. The falling snow made the street quiet and eerie and the older frozen snow on the sidewalk crunched under his boots. John figured he would have to walk a block or two before he could hail a cab. What he didn't count on was the cold. 

John buried his face in the collar of his jacket. He concentrated so hard on staying warm, that he didn't hear the crunching of another's shoes on the sidewalk until he almost ran into them.

“Oh, excuse me I-” John stopped himself when he saw the chestnut hair and pleasant face. He pursed his lips and looked to his left where a sleek black car pulled up alongside the curb. 

“I see,” John half-smiled at Anthea when she grinned at him. “Think you could drop me off at the grocer's when Mycroft is done with me?” 

“We'll see.” Was all she said as she walked around the car and opened the door. 

John groaned as he opened his side and got in the car. 

 

In his few encounters with Mycroft, John had never been to the man's home. It was overstated, like the man himself. The exterior was all white and blended in with the newly fallen snow. The trees were dark skeletons and the front door was red. The interior was even more over the top, with a large crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer and two wide sweeping staircases. 

“Follow me.” Anthea's heels clicked on the shiny marble floor as she walked across the foyer and opened a door that was at the foot of the left staircase. “You can wait in here.” 

John let out a large sigh and walked over to where she stood. 

“Don't you get tired of gathering me at random times?” 

“No, because your reaction is different every time and it amuses me.” She smiled again at him, this time it seemed genuine, although, John would probably never know. 

“I'm glad I can amuse you.” John said as he nodded and walked past Anthea.

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

John turned, but all he saw was the door closing. He furrowed his brow for a second, then it turned into a half-smile. He really needed to stop assuming the worst of people. 

“Something amusing, John?” Mycroft and his overstated entrances. He was wearing a dove grey three piece suit with a matching shirt and red tie and handkerchief and he poured two drinks. 

“Just the fact that Anthea is actually human, and not some android that you've created in your basement.” 

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow as he walked over to John and offered the drink. John was going to refuse at first. He still wasn't happy with Mycroft. In fact, every part of him wanted to just run out of the over decorated house and finish what he needed to do for the day. But, Mycroft was the closest thing he had to Sherlock and right now, he needed that. 

Was it possible to be addicted to a person? 

“John, you are thinking too hard about the situation and you do have my permission to leave. I would understand.” The elder Holmes stood stark still in front of John. “And please, stop comparing me to Sherlock. Our minds are quite possibly the only thing we have in common.” 

John swallowed and looked away. “Of course. You are the Iceman. He was the Virgin.” he took the drink from Mycroft and lifted it to his lips. Scotch. It was a good thing he didn't have to drive, or negotiate any treaties any time soon. 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and continued.

“I presume you read the little article about your friendly neighborhood assassin being captured?” Mycroft stated as he sat in an overstuffed chair. He gestured for John to take the one opposite. John declined as he paced. 

“Yes, how- never mind. I should know by now that you've replaced all the cameras in the flat. Am I correct?” 

“Yes, and you should be more choosey with your flatmates.” 

John chuckled. “I like Greg. I grew to like Sherlock.” 

“Greg is a bumbling fool, but he means well and despite all that he's the smartest one in that division, thanks to Sherlock. Which is why I will reinstate him early, in January. In the meantime, tell him to take a real vacation and get away from England.” Mycroft took a sip of his drink.

John, unsure of what to say, also took a drink. The amber liquid warmed his insides quickly.

“So, aren't you wondering who caught the Russian assassin?” Mycroft said.

“The thought crossed my mind.” 

“As far as Moriarty's web stretches, I have people that reach that far as well. You would take kindly as well to eliminate all ideas that some how Sherlock is alive and out there catching all the flies.” 

John frowned at the other man.

“Why would I think Sherlock alive?” 

“I saw you a couple months ago get out of a cab with a perfect stranger that had Sherlock's scarf for some reason. I've also seen you with your sister at Piccadilly Square talking to the same stranger. Are you seeing Sherlock in strangers? You also talk to yourself, as if Sherlock was there. Have you been seeing your therapist?”

John huffed and set his drink down a little too hard. “I will not stay and listen to this...this rubbish. I would take the cameras down, but you're just going to put them up again. If you don't like what you are seeing, don't bother looking.” John turned on his heel and started toward the door. 

“John, you haven't visited his grave for over three months. Don't you think it's about high time you did?” 

John froze. He drew in a deep breath to keep himself in check. 

“I also noticed you haven't been using your cane as often. Remember John, you've seen London as a battlefield and through Sherlock's eyes. It would serve you well to see it through your own eyes.” 

John turned his head a little at that statement. 

“Sarah is a good woman. You should keep her around for as long as you can.” 

The doctor bit his lip and opened the door. 

“Merry Christmas Doctor John Watson.” Was the last thing John heard before the door shut. It stopped him in his tracks. He wasn't sure that Mycroft was capable of such sentimentalism, but he wasn't going to go back to check. 

As he walked across the foyer, he sorted through the cryptic conversation. John wondered what Mycroft meant when he said that he needed to eliminate any thoughts that Sherlock was alive? Maybe he should go back to his therapist. And to Sherlock's grave. It had been a while since he was there. 

 

“Yes sir,” Anthea's voice interrupted John's thoughts and He watched as she pushed the end button on her phone. “I am to direct the driver to take you where ever you need to go today.” 

John cocked an eyebrow at her, then turned his head to look back at the door he just came out of. He sighed.

“Alright then. Three places I need to be, and then home.” 

 

A small breeze had picked up and snow began falling harder by the time John had reached the cemetery. Paths were plowed throughout, but most of the snow was undisturbed and starting to go grey underneath the London fog. John knew the path almost by heart now; he could walk it with his eyes shut if he wanted to, but he never took himself up on that offer. When he reached Sherlock's plot, he found that someone had cleared away most of the snow and on either side of the headstone were vases containing mostly dead flowers. He removed the flowers and replaced them with some simple daisies and one deep purple Iris. 

John's heart ached every time he came. He would also bawl like a baby, which was one of the main reasons he hadn't visited lately. He was hoping it would be too cold for him to cry, but he could feel it at the back of his throat. He knew better than to fight it; he would end up sick to his stomach and a sore throat for days. So, he let the tears fall and stood in silence, listening to the breeze blowing through the barren trees. 

“Observe...” 

John whipped his head around, but saw no one else in the cemetery. The hairs rose on the back of his neck and he shivered, but not from the cold. 

He bowed his head. John Watson was not a particularly religious man, but hearing voices in a quiet cemetery could make him one really quick. 

“One more miracle, Sherlock, for me...” 

He repeated that mantra several times over the last few months since his death. It seemed to calm his nerves today. John nodded at the gravestone and was about to turn around, when something caught his eye. Something brown that didn't match the rest of the dreary brown earth, was sitting behind the gravestone. He walked closer and saw that it was a brown envelope encased in clear plastic. He bent and picked it out of the snow and shook it off and unwrapped it. Pulling out the envelope inside, John found that his name was on the outside, but he couldn't place the handwriting. He opened the envelope, and inside was a fancy sheet of stationary paper. It was thicker than most paper and the edges were worn. On that paper was written in the same unknown handwriting:

“If you wish to keep track of my whereabouts, follow the concert career of a violinist named Sigurson.” 

 

John read it twice, turned it over and back and read it again. He placed the stationary back in the envelope, which he placed in the inside pocket of his jacket. He touched the cold stone of the grave one more time, then walked away, his head buzzing with confusion.

 

When John returned to the flat later that afternoon, sounds of Christmas Carols floated down to him in he foyer and Mrs. Hudson's famous Apple Crumble filled the air. He paused and closed his eyes. For a brief moment, he was seven years old and back at home waiting to open his Christmas presents. He could hear Harry's giggles above the din of his mother cooking dinner and his father conversing with relatives and above the music.

“John.” 

His daydream seemed so real, he could hear his sister's voice. 

“John, what the hell are you doing?” 

His eyes snapped open and Harry was standing in front of him, hand on one hip and a glass of wine in the other. 

“Should you be drinking?”

“We don't see each other for ages and that's the first thing you say to me?” She sneered at first and John feared that she was going to fly into one of her fits. Instead, a bright smile overcame her face and she started laughing. 

“Oh, you should see your face!” She said between breaths. “Come here and give your sister a hug.” 

John was still dumbfounded and Harry had to step forward to hug him. 

“It's okay John,” she whispered into his ear. “I've found someone who understands my limits and whom I don't want to kill!” 

“Oh, Harry, that's... wonderful.” John finally wrapped his arms around her and held tight.

“John? What's wrong?” Harry heard his soft sobs on her shoulder as she wrapped her arms tighter. She made comforting noises and petted him softly. 

“Sorry...sorry...” he managed to get out between sobs. “When I walked in here, I was hit with memories of Mum and Dad.” He buried his nose in her shoulder.

“I'm glad you thought the same thing.” Harry felt her throat getting tighter and her eyes were watery. “I was taken back to the happier days of Mum and Dad, when we were just pups.” 

“Mmm...me too.” John let himself linger in his sisters arms for another moment, then pulled away and sniffed. 

“Holy crap, John,” Harry started as she reached in her sweater pocket for a tissue. “Here clean yourself up. You can't face your friends looking like that.” 

“That bad, eh?” John turned to the small mirror in the foyer and blew his nose and wiped his eyes. “Who's all here?” 

“Oh just Wendy and I-”

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands as she popped out of her flat. “I'm so glad you're finally home. What took you so long?” 

John gave Mrs. Hudson a double take. “How long was I gone?”

“About three hours, dear.” 

“Oh, I lost track of time, sorry. I had other errands that I forgot I had to run.” 

“That's okay, hon, I'm glad your safe. Is this mine?” She touched his hand and he nodded as he handed the groceries to her. 

“By the way, John, your sister is a hoot!” She smiled at Harry then John then popped back into her flat.

“I see why you stayed at the flat,” Harry held her arm out and John entwined his in hers. “She reminds me of Nana, a lot.”

John snapped his fingers. “You're right! It's been bugging me, but you're right!” 

John stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to his sister.

“Thank you, Harry.” 

She furrowed her brow at him. “For what?” 

“For getting help and becoming the sister I once knew, and now need.” 

Harry swatted at him as her bracelets jingled and she wrapped her arms around him once more. 

“Thank you for forcing me to finally get help. I needed it. Lord knows I needed it. Merry Christmas, John.”

“Yes, Merry Christmas, Harry.” 

 

Ten minutes later, John and Harry entered the flat and found Harry's girlfriend, Wendy, tangled in gold decorative rope and Greg, who was trying to get her untangled, was caught up himself. 

“Well, if this isn't a sight to behold?” Harry said as she propped one hand on her hip. 

“Oh, it isn't what it looks like, I swear!” Greg said as he tried to pull his leg free. He looked helplessly at John who was stifling a laugh behind his hand. 

“Let me put this down and I'll be back to help.” John sniggered all the way to the kitchen.

“Oh, sod off, you're not gonna help!” 

“Do you usually talk to your flatmate like that?” Wendy said trying to pull her slender arm from the mess. 

“All the time especially since he's being an arse!” Greg yelled.

“Here let me see if I can get you guys out.” Harry walked over and surveyed the situation, then took a sip of her wine. “Nope, there's no hope. You two are stuck!” 

“Oh pish-posh silly Sally, get us out!” Wendy said as she shook her unruly red curls out of her face. 

Harry laughed out loud as John walked out pouring a glass of wine. “Anybody like some?” 

“Thank you, mate, I'd love some...” Wendy managed to wriggle her arm free. “As soon as I'm out of this.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Greg said as he managed to loosen everything and they stepped out of the gold rope. 

“Are you from Australia, Wendy?” John asked as he handed her the glass he poured. 

“I am, thank you.” She took a sip and nodded her acceptance of the red wine. 

“We met at the meetings, John, can you believe that?” 

“I'm very happy for you two,” John had been pouring another glass and handed it to Greg and poured one for himself. 

“John, your sister is a riot,” Greg said after he took a sip of wine. “And her girlfriend adds to the funny!” 

Harry put her arm around Wendy and they both blushed. 

John smiled warmly at them. 

“Yes, that's definitely Harry for ya. Shall we finish decorating?” 

 

Two hours later, and two bottles of wine later, the tree was decorated and everyone was enjoying a piece of Mrs. Hudson's pie. 

“It's Christmas Eve,” she explained. “One is allowed to eat dessert before dinner.” 

Mike Stamford had made an appearance, then left. 

 

A half an hour later, Molly and Craig hollered up the stairs to them. Greg froze and John glanced at him. Mrs. Hudson, oblivious to their predicament, called out and rushed down. John could hear bits and pieces of the conversation. 

“Who's here?” Harry asked before taking a sip of her not quite egg nog. 

“Oh Molly's here everyone!” Mrs. Hudson's giddiness was overwhelming to Greg as he smiled awkwardly at Molly. His eyes got big when Craig came into sight and put his hand on the small of her back. John caught the interaction and proceeded to introduce everyone and Molly introduced her companion.

“This is Craig. He's my newish neighbor and a journalist. In fact he's the one that's been writing all the articles on 'The I Believe in Sherlock Movement'.” 

John and Craig stared at each other as they shook hands.

“You...you're Doctor John Watson?”

“You're Craig Mulligan.” They said simultaneously and laughed.

“I've been wanting to meet you for the longest time, but Molly and I have been so busy.”

“I've been interested in meeting the man behind those articles, but when I researched you, it said you lived in Canada.” John said. 

“Yes, I have a residence there, but I am originally from Ireland. The fliers are what piqued my interest. No, that's a lie, Sherlock himself got me interested...” 

When Greg saw that Craig and John were thoroughly preoccupied, he went up to Molly and whispered for her to meet him in Sherlock's old room. She started at his touch and gaped at his request. He had just enough liquid courage in him to say his peace to her. She hesitated as she bit her lip. Mrs. Hudson, with her impeccable timing handed her a glass of wine. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off her coat, and revealed a form fitting dark blue velvet dress, that came to her knees and a jeweled broach at one of the straps. 

“Thank you Mrs. Hudson.” She gave the land lady a nervous smile as she accepted the wine. She took a sip and silently walked towards Sherlocks bedroom. Greg was looking out the window when she entered. 

“Molly, you look beautiful.” He said as he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. 

“Thank you.” Molly blushed and set her jacket on the bed to avoid looking at Greg. 

“Molly, what's going on?” 

“What do you mean?” She said before taking another sip of wine.

“I mean with us. We've barely talked in the past couple months. Hell, we haven't even seen each other since … that night.” 

“I-I've been busy-”

“Busy with Craig?”

Molly's eyes widened and she ran her finger along the rim of the wine glass. “It's not like that.”

“How am I supposed to know that when you don't call or speak to me?” Greg's voice was starting to rise. 

“Greg, I... I was scared. I am scared. I don't know what to think. I like you, a lot. But I don't want to be that person that helps you through that previous relationship and you throw away afterward.” 

Greg looked at her,dumbfounded. Then he stepped closer, closing the space between them and gently grabbed her elbow.

“Molly, I like you, a lot. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since that night. How you just left without saying goodbye. I kept thinking that maybe I scared you by moving too fast, or that you didn't want anything to do with me anymore. And I don't see you for a couple months, and you walk in with … that guy. Now you say this to me, I can't believe you would think of me that way.” 

Molly bit her lip when she saw the hurt in his eyes. “I was afraid that you didn't have feelings for me -”

He wrapped his arms around her. “Oh Molly Hooper, sweet innocent Molly. I care very much for you, and I would like to get to know you better, if you let me.” 

“I would like that.” 

“Good.” He kissed the top of her head.


	11. Seven Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock thought about how his sentimentality had gotten him in this position; on a plane getting ready to land in New York City, with an I.D. And papers that were not his own, hair and eye color that were not his own, an identity formed with the help of his brother. Sherlock Holmes did not exist in this world, for now. William Scott took his place and he was a lawyer from overseas in America for business and possible pleasure. He also hated that Mycroft chose his given name for an alternate identity. He always hated his full name, and so did his mother. Sherlock changed his name right after his parents died...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have questions, please don't be afraid to ask! If you see any glaring errors or you just want to comment, please do not hesitate to do so. I promise I don't bite, hard!
> 
>  
> 
> 'Oh what a tangled web we weave,  
> When first we practice to deceive.'
> 
> Sir Walter Scott

John was the only one to see Molly and Greg emerge from the bedroom. Holding hands and blushing, they looked like the happiest couple alive, besides Wendy and Harry. John smirked and continued his conversation with Craig.

"I don't want to get too personal, and I know it hasn't been that long since his death, but I would love to ask you some questions about Sherlock." Craig said.

"Well, you are right, it hasn't been that long, but there are some things I don't mind talking about, especially with someone who can put a sane twist on him." John raised his glass to take the last drink of wine, when a gentle touch on his shoulders startled him. He turned his head and Sarah was in his peripheral vision.

"Sarah!" He said as he put his arm around her and squeezed. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too. It's getting bitter cold out there." Sarah said as she rubbed her hands together.

"Craig, this is a very good friend of mine, Sarah."

Craig and Sarah exchanged pleasantries as John introduced Craig.

"Oh, I haven't read your articles, I apologize. But I most certainly will now." She smiled up at Craig.

"Thank you, I appreciate it. I would eventually like to ask you some questions about Sherlock as well, if you don't mind?"

"Well, I didn't know him that well. But he made our first date exciting!" Sarah nudged John as he smirked at the memory. Craig raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, it wasn't anything scandalous. Just Sherlock being Sherlock." John looked somberly into his empty glass and looked at Craig's. "Would you like some more wine?"

"No thank you. I drove and another glass would be a bad idea."

"I'll take your coat," John said to Sarah as he grabbed her coat. "And get us some wine. I'll introduce you to everyone when I come around."

Sarah put her hand on John's arm. "Actually, I want to talk to you about something. Can I come with you?"

"Of course." John furrowed his brow at her. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, fine," she threw him a half-smile.

"No, it's not fine," John said after he put Sarah's coat in the closet. They walked into the kitchen and John started pouring wine. "There is something. Tell me."

"I'm just wondering why you address me as your good friend?"

"Isn't that what you are?" John handed her a glass as she accepted.

"Well," Sarah started as she looked into her glass. "I was hoping we were more, than good friends, that is." She looked up at John, who blinked several times and pursed his lips.

"I...hmm...I was hoping the same thing, actually."

"Good, then you wouldn't mind if I did this..." She closed the space between them and kissed John. He hummed his approval and she chuckled and rested her hand on his shoulder as they parted. "I think you are a very sweet man John and I like you a lot. But I didn't want to push you into anything that you didn't want."

"Thank you, Sarah. That means a lot. I wasn't sure I was ready for more, after everything that has happened. But, with you here and saying this to me, I think...I think it is right."

"I am patient and I am willing to wait for you." She absentmindedly ran her fingers through his hair as he licked his lips. He smiled at her, then kissed her, more passionately than the first.

"Would...um..." John started after they parted again. "Would you like to spend the night?"

"Wow, you do move fast!" She beamed at him.

John chuckled. "Oh, well, I...um...see, Christmas isn't a good holiday anymore and-"

Sarah placed a finger on his lips. "John, you don't have to explain."

Then she kissed him.

"Oh lord, Wendy and I are going to have to get a hotel." Harry walked in the kitchen and then walked back out.

"Oh God, Harry," John and Sarah parted with an exclamation. "I'm sorry. This is Sarah. Sarah this is my sister Harry."

"Nice to finally meet you." Sarah said as she shook Harry's hand. "John speaks the world of you."

"Well, it hasn't been all roses and wine between us the past ten years, but we've managed." Harry smiled and tugged at her curly blond hair. "It's nice to meet you. This old bloke hasn't really said anything about you, but I could tell that there was someone in his life making him smile more."

John blushed and looked down at his shoes as Sarah kissed him on the cheek.

"It is nice to see everyone happy for Christmas despite-" John stopped himself.

Harry rested her hand on his arm and squeezed gently. "You are surrounded by some great friends."

"And even better family." Sarah beamed at Harry. It was her turn to blush.

"Let's get everyone's glass full and have a toast!" Harry reached for the wine as John went to the fridge and grabbed another bottle.

As John walked into the sitting room with Harry and Sarah, he glanced over at Greg who had Molly's hand in his hand. He was tracing circles around the scar there. She shook her head and they both looked up as Harry started to talk.

"I want to toast all of you that have been beside John these past few months. I know that Sherlock touched all of you in one way or another. I only wish I could have known him the way all of you did. I also want to thank everyone for welcoming Wendy and I tonight. I hope to see more of everyone here. Anyway, here's to a brighter future for all of us. May all your Christmas wishes come true!" Harry raised her glass. "Happy Christmas everyone!"

 

~+X+~

 

'One more miracle...one more miracle, for me...don't...be...dead...'

John's words at his grave site always echoed in Sherlock's head, especially in his dreams; this one was a repeat of the last one-hundred and two. He conditioned himself not to wake up screaming like a lunatic, and he was grateful for that now. As he looked around, he realized that the flight he was on was getting ready to land. Sherlock didn't realize he had fallen asleep and he would've have prevented it from happening if he could have. Sleep was his enemy. Sleep was where he saw John, and that wasn't what he needed. He needed to focus on the tasks on hand. Those would lead to a future back at the flat with his friend, he hoped.

Sherlock thought about how his sentimentality had gotten him in this position; on a plane getting ready to land in New York City, with an I.D. And papers that were not his own, hair and eye color that were not his own, an identity formed with the help of his brother. Sherlock Holmes did not exist in this world, for now. William Scott took his place and he was a lawyer from overseas in America for business and possible pleasure. He also hated that Mycroft chose his given name for an alternate identity. He always hated his full name, and so did his mother. Sherlock changed his name right after his parents died...

Sherlock shook his head. This was no time to think of such things. He stretched and gathered his things. He had to admit that he was thankful that Mycroft purchased a first class space. He wasn't sure he could stand making small talk with a stranger for 12 hours.

As soon as Sherlock walked into the airport, he turned his phone on and checked his messages; one from Mycroft and two from John. That was something he had a hard time dealing with. It startled him when he saw John's number pop up on his phone. Sherlock changed his number since then, but he decided to direct the messages from his old number to his new voicemail. At least John would have his voice to listen to everyday.

Sherlock bit his lower lip and dialed his brother.

"I just stepped foot into the states."

"Hello to you as well," Mycroft said. "I'm glad you arrived in one piece."

"Yes, well, I guess I should thank you for getting me first class." Sherlock said as he made his way through the crowds.

"You're welcome. I have transportation waiting for you out in front of the airport. The chauffeur will be waiting for you on the first level. You will recognize them. Remember why you are there. I know how you loose focus when you take on another identity, William Scott."

"I have no idea what you are talking about." Sherlock cringed.

"Please, I'm still cleaning up from your last debacle in Germany."

A sharp pain started to form across Sherlock's forehead and he clenched his jaw to keep the memories from bubbling over inside his head. He had every idea in the world what his brother was talking about, and was going to make damn sure to avoid that dark path.

"Please don't talk to any one except the chauffeur I have for you." Mycroft continued. "Be careful."

"Sentiment," Sherlock ran his hand through his short blond hair, frustrated. "You're slipping."

"Don't patronize me."

"Yes, I love you too." Sherlock hung up as he pushed the fake glasses up his nose.

He adjusted the carry-on and laptop case on his shoulders and he stepped onto the escalator. Traveling half -way around the world the past few days had strained his nerves and the patches weren't helping him. Sherlock scratched his arm. If he could only find the smoking area, he could just stand in the vicinity and inhale. The smoking laws weren't as strict in certain parts of America as they were in London, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't have a problem finding cigarettes and a smoking spot.

The bitter New York air hit him hard as he pushed through the door and found the smokers all huddled in their little corner like naughty school children. He inhaled hard, and everyone looked at him strangely. Ignoring them, he inhaled again.

"Here have one." A man about his height and age handed him a cigarette and his lighter.

"Thanks." Sherlock said around the cigarette as he lit it. Sherlock tried to asses the man. Long gray coat, bags under eyes, messy blond hair, but clean shaven and well-built. A scar, that Sherlock was sure the man meant to hide behind his collar when it was buttoned up, disappeared under his shirt...

"Flying make you nervous, or just short on cigs?" The man was making polite conversation, but to Sherlock it was all boring. He had to play it off, he couldn't be himself, and that was going to be the hardest thing for him to do.

"Both actually."

"Heh, flying makes me nervous."

"Sorry to hear that." Sherlock said as he blew out a puff.

"I'm not. Gives me a chance to sleep." The man shook a bottle that he had a death grip on since Sherlock had burst through the doors. "I'm Andrew by the way."

"William."

"First time in the states?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man for a brief second. He couldn't help but think that he had seen this man before. He took a drag of the cigarette to cover his stare.

"Yeah, that obvious, huh?"

The other shrugged. "Your carry-on is an expensive European type just like your shoes, although they are the most comfortable pair you have. Also brand new passport tells me you haven't been out of Scotland much." He took a drag of his cigarette.

Sherlock blinked. He had never been on the receiving end of a deduction before.

"H-How did you-" He played it off as he gestured at the man.

"It's a bad habit, sorry." Andrew finished his cigarette. He reached into the pocket on the inside of his jacket and handed Sherlock a business card. "I'm in New York for a week, look me up. I can show you the sights for cheap."

"And you won't kill me?" Sherlock threw his cigarette to the ground.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing, sorry. I suppose a sightseeing tour wouldn't hurt." Sherlock twirled the card between his fingers, then stuck it in his pocket.

"I look forward to it." Andrew winked at him before opening the door for Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a half-smile and walked through the door. He turned and Andrew was no where to be found. He turned again. No Andrew.

Sherlock's phone went off in his pocket.

"You haven't found your transportation." Mycroft said. Sherlock detected a hint of concern. "You must complete this on time or-"

"You don't have to pull the father card on me. I know what I am doing. And, if you must know I had to have a cigarette. Not that its any of your business."

"Everything you do is my business."

"I might have to fix that when I am done here." Sherlock pressed the end button and slipped his phone into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He missed his long black coat. He missed his dark hair. He missed sitting by the fire at 221B Baker street with his friend. He missed John.

Sherlock cleared his throat and clenched his jaw to keep his emotions in check as he weaved his way through the crowd. As he burst through the doors he saw a man in a black suit and a black hat holding a sign with his alternate ego's name on it. He smiled and waved as he approached.

"I'm William Scott." He said as he shook the other man's hand.

"Nice to meet you." The chauffeur was an older gentleman, possibly in his sixties, but still sharp as a tack. His accent suggested he lived in Boston originally, but moved to New York recently to live with his daughter and her husband who have two dogs and one cat, and is that a bird feather? Or just from his pillow that he can't somehow let go of? Intends to get shoes shined after taking me to my destination. His teeth suggested that he smoked.

'How could I draw conclusions about this man, but Andrew left a blank slate?'

"Nice to meet you as well," Sherlock smiled as the man opened the door for him. "Say, this is my first time in New York. Is it possible to get a tour?"

"I'm sorry sir, not during lunch time traffic."

"Oh, do you know of a good smoke shop then? Patches aren't cutting it."

The other man smiled. "Yes I do."

"Good then. Thank you, sir." Sherlock took in a glance of his surroundings and to his left, he spotted Andrew. He stole a second look and the man started walking the other way as he brought a cell phone to his ear.

"The smoke shop is on the way to our destination sir." The chauffeur said as Sherlock closed the limo door. He nodded and sat back and drew in a deep breath. Something wasn't right, and it made Sherlock fidgety. He followed the small talk the driver was making as best he could.

They pulled up to a small redbrick building that looked out of place with the surrounding buildings. They were run down and tagged with bright colors. Raz would be disappointed.

Sherlock got out of the limo and surveyed his surroundings. He was fairly certain that they had been followed. He was also fairly certain that whomever was following them was not expecting a stop at this smoke shop.

He zipped the leather jacket and shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked into the shop.

The Limo finally stopped in front of an elaborate white modern mansion in the Hamptons. Another car, a silver Bently, was parked in front, but it wasn't the car that had been following them. Sherlock took a careful look at his surroundings, making himself very aware of them. He looked over at the mansion and saw a face peeking out; disappearing as soon as he stepped out of the Limo.

"Any idea where we are?" Sherlock asked, playing his part.

"Sir? It wasn't in the file you received?" The chauffeur said as he closed the door.

"Yes, but I don't remember it being this fancy!"

"Heh, you are in for a treat sir." The other man tipped his hat. "Good day."

Sherlock looked back at the mansion and saw the same curtain moving where the face was looking out.

"Can you stay for one smoke?" Sherlock looked back at the other man who had reached the drivers side of the limo already. He fidgeted with his hat.

"I shouldn't stay any longer than I have to-" He suddenly looked to his right and Sherlock followed his gaze. Down the rocky driveway, they could see a black BMW making it's way along the curves. The chauffeur was in the limo and starting it before Sherlock could stop him.

'Damn,' Sherlock said to himself as he fingered the revolver in his jacket pocket and casually strolled up to the front door of the mansion. Just as he was about to knock, the door opened and a red-headed woman was smiling up at him.

"Hello William Sherrinford Scott." The woman gestured inside the house. "Welcome to paradise and your new home for the next week. We hope it's everything you desired and more."

Sherlock stepped hesitantly into the house. It was all modern with glass and stone everywhere. He looked at the woman again.

"Thank you."

"May I?" She gestured at his laptop bag and carry-on.

"No, I'll keep it with me until I get to my room, thanks."

"Let me show you to your room then." The woman turned and Sherlock followed her as she climbed a very modern looking set of stairs. They were halfway up when Sherlock heard the door open, then close. He ducked and tried to get a peek, but all he could see were black shoes, and gray trousers.

"I expect you will enjoy tonight's entertainment." She said as she opened the door to his room. "A limo will be here at six to bring you to the Opera House. Dinner will be at five. I am Alice, if you should need anything, pick up the phone on your nightstand and ask for me. In the meantime, enjoy the pleasures of The Nightingale, Mr. Scott."

Sherlock thanked her as she handed him his room key. He wondered what Mycroft got him into; if this was a practical joke to get back at him for Baskerville and not the case they needed to be working on.

The west facing wall was made of giant picture windows that looked out onto a large garden space and a water feature in the middle. Directly out front was a large pool covered with a tarp and a good layer of snow. To the right, the house wrapped around the garden which was full of tasteful Christmas decorations.

Christmas.

Sherlock had forgotten that today was Christmas. He never put much bother in the holiday. Last year was the first time he celebrated, and even then it wasn't the most wonderful time of the year as the song suggested.

His arm started itching again where the patches had been and he placed his things on the bed and picked up the phone.

"Alice here. How may I help you, Mr. Scott?"

"Is there a designated smoking area around?"

Sherlock heard her put a hand over the receiver and thought he heard her ask someone a question.

"Yes sir. I will be there in a second to escort you to the designated area."

The phone went dead before he could protest. He did not want company and his head started hurting again at the thought of making more small talk.

"So what exactly is this establishment?" Sherlock asked after lighting his cigarette.

Alice looked at him, puzzled. "You booked the reservation, and you don't know?"

"I actually didn't book this. I told my secretary jokingly that I needed a vacation and she took me seriously and booked me this."

"Well," Alice started as she pulled her coat tighter around her. "This is an establishment for business men and gentlemen to discreetly get away for however long they want. We have everything their hearts desire, from staging an action scene in a movie, to fulfilling all sexual desires, to catering to kinks."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Does that alarm you, Mr. Scott? Since this package wasn't booked by you, I can make arrangements for a different package."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock blew out the drag he took. He couldn't help but laugh internally at his own statement. "I am nervous about the actual package I was booked into."

Alice smiled and Sherlock frowned at her. "I am to be your personal assistant for the next five days. I am also to fulfill any and all of your desires, Mr. Scott."

She was suddenly standing very close to him. He could feel her body heat and see her eyes dilating.

"Any fantasies you wish to have fulfilled, Mr. Scott?"

He took a drag off the cigarette. He wasn't sure if he would be able to play this particular card right.

"Only if that gentleman can join us." Sherlock smiled and gestured to a man that was standing just beyond the corner of the building, talking on his cell phone.

It was Alice's turn to cock an eyebrow, then she turned. "Your secretary never mentioned anything about your sexual preference. Besides, he's only here for the adventure package."

"That's because she doesn't know what I prefer!" He winked at her. "Who is he?"

Alice tilted her head and gave Sherlock a coy look. "I can't give the names of other clients."

Sherlock looked up at the other man who was turned toward them now. He was still talking on his cell and smoking a cigarette. Sherlock recognized him immediately as Andrew. The man turned around and disappeared around the building.

Sherlock stiffened for a second and tried to cover his body's betrayal with a puff of his cigarette. He knew exactly why he was here.

Alice took a step back from him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said taking the last drag. "Any way I can be included in his adventure?"

Alice frowned as she looked from Sherlock to where Andrew had been.

"I-I will have to look into that. We've never done that before."

"Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I will clean up for dinner."

 

~*XXX*~

 

Ten Months Earlier...

"Jim, what the hell are you doing in there?"

The svelte woman was about to bring the cat-o-nine-tails upon Jim's bare skin, when the voice interrupted them. She clenched her jaw.

"Making peoples dreams come true!" Jim Moriarty said in his high-pitched voice.

"Sounds like a lot more than that," the voice paused and tried the door. "Let me in Jim."

The menacing tone, or something darker, brought shivers down her back. But outwardly, she remained composed.

"Just give us a half an hour. Everyone will have everything they ever wanted. Even you. You just have to have patience, my friend."

"Jim open this door or I swear-"

"Don't forget the power you're going to have!"

A pause on the other side of the door. She could hear the man breathing.

"I...hate you." Then footsteps walking away from the door.

"I hate being interrupted." Jim sighed and sat on the chair in front of the laptop. He tapped a few keys. "This email is going to save the world. Now honey, you are going to save me."

The woman brought the cat-o-nine tails down on his snowy white back so hard, she thought she drew blood. There was no scream. Only an exhale of pleasure. This one was going to take a while to break. But that's the fun part; making them break, especially if their shell is extra hard.

After three hours of being tied up and slapped around, Jim was finally done and she had her information, the email that would save the world.

~+X+~

She was facing another man that was promising to save her, again. She wasn't going to let her heart into it this time.

"I was promised his power, his wealth, his redemption." The man was wearing contacts, but she could still see the fire and determination in his eyes. "I can promise your life back and more."

"I was already made that promise once." Irene Adler set her wine down and sat in the chair across from Sebastian Moran. "What makes you think you can keep that promise?"

Sebastian leaned forward and set his elbows on the table. "Because I know things, secrets that even you don't know."

"Hmm...I doubt that." She laughed. "I once knew all the secrets of the British Royal family, all of their dirty, little secrets."

"This secret is closer to your heart than you think." He ran his hand through his sandy blond hair. "And If you can survive this little plan of mine, I will promise you a life of power and wealth. Even more of what you had before."

Irene narrowed her eyes at the other man.

"What makes you think I'm not happy where I am?"

"Because, Irene Adler, just like Sherlock Holmes, you like a challenge. You can't back down from one. You played the Holmes brothers well, just like Jim Moriarty played you. And you lost. Now you want more. You want what Moriarty had, to be untouchable. To have a heart of stone. To be unbreakable."

Irene swallowed visibly.

She had never had any one read her so well since Sherlock Holmes.

Now he was dead the poor bastard.

"What about Mycroft? He's still alive and still very much a part of the British Government."

"That is where the fun part begins." Sebastian licked his lips. "I need you to arrange to sing at the Opera House on Christmas evening."

"Christmas? Why?" She took a drink of her wine. She hated Christmas. Just like she hated New Years.

"Because your contact will be coming to watch you sing. He will also be staying at the Nightingale."

Irene was having trouble keeping her emotions in check. She loved the Nightingale. She built that business back up to it's original glory.

Sebastian went on as he watched the different emotions wash over her face.

"After he discovers the missing link in the underground arms deal, it will lead him to the man behind the deals and the smuggling. He is the one that will help us. There are going to be some hoops to jump through, Irene. Are you sure you are ready to separate your heart and your survival instincts?"

Irene clenched her jaw, then took another drink of the wine. She started to get up, but Sebastian stopped her as he grabbed her neck.

"Don't do anything either one of us will regret." He let go of her and she exhaled loudly and grabbed at her throat. "You need this Irene. You miss the chase. You miss the adrenaline. You miss London."

She stared at his hard features. He was a handsome man, as men go. Well built, and had his wits about him. There was a lot of testosterone in this one. But she had seen his handy work; CCTV footage of assassinations that no one ever found the link back to Sebastian. Moriarty kept it that way.

"I will do it on one condition."

"Name it."

"That you never lay a hand on me again."


	12. Broken Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Track down this murderer, he must be found! Hunt out this animal, who runs to ground! Too long he's preyed on us - but now we know: the Phantom of the Opera is there deep down below..."~The Phantom of the Opera~

“Do you like the Opera, Mr. Scott?” Alice said as she placed her phone in her lap. She reminded Sherlock of Mycroft's assistant, Anthea, with her sparkling green eyes and long chestnut hair and her mannerisms. 

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock answered her. 'When I'm not looking for an undercover operative.'

“Good, I think you'll especially enjoy this one...” Alice went on, but Sherlock didn't hear her. He was deep in thought about whom he would look for at the Opera. Bright red hair, big green eyes, and the voice of an angel, was how Mycroft described her. If he hadn't known better, Sherlock would have thought that his brother was in love with this woman...

“She has the voice of an angel,” Alice's comment cut through Sherlock's thoughts.

“Who does?” 

“The woman you are about to hear sing tonight. Victoria Corso.” 

Sherlock blinked. The woman he was looking for was the lead in the Opera. This was going to be a lot trickier that he thought. 

When they pulled up to the theater, people were milling about in their furs and glittery dresses, overstating the quiet beauty of the old Opera house. Sherlock gazed at the building for a brief second and wondered what famous voices echoed within the halls. His left hand twitched; he missed his violin. Playing in Russia, only gave him a taste of what a professional could have. He never played for applause, although John and Mrs. Hudson seemed to like his playing. 

“This way please.” Alice was standing in front of his open door, gesturing towards the theater. Sherlock stepped out of the Limo and adjusted his coat and gloves then started towards the theater. A loud clearing of the throat stopped him. He furrowed his brow and turned and saw Alice giving him a dark look. He gave a quick smile as he adjusted his glasses, then walked back toward the woman. 

“Is everything okay, Mr. Scott?” She asked as she took the arm he offered. “You seem distracted.” 

“I apologize Alice, I'm not used to having an escort,” he scanned the crowd. “And I haven't had a holiday for quite a while. I'm not used to relaxing.”

“Well, get used to it. You are very tense.” 

He glanced at her before they entered the theater, then scanned the crowd again.

“If you will excuse me, Mr. Scott, I will secure our tickets and our seats.” 

“I will check our jackets.” He helped her with her jacket. She wore an emerald green satin dress that hugged her curves and accentuated her exotic beauty. She said her thanks and walked away. 

The inside of the theater lobby was magnificent, even though it was gaudily decorated for Christmas. Gold angels were everywhere and three large pine trees decorated with gold and red bulbs and tinsel, stood at the corners of the theater. People continued to stream in and mill about as Sherlock made his way to the coat check counter. He looked back where Alice walked away and found her occupied at the ticket counter. He slid his hand into her jacket pocket and came up with nothing. He glanced about and placed his hand in the other pocket and came up with a candy wrapper and nothing else. Sherlock furrowed his brow and placed the wrapper back in the pocket and proceeded to check their coats at the counter.

“Oh, excuse me sir,” the young man behind the counter called after Sherlock as he started to walk away. He felt everyone’s eyes on him as he turned around.

“You have a message,” the young man handed Sherlock a small piece of stationary folded twice. Sigursen was written on the outside.

“Who is this from?”

“I don't know sir. It was here when I arrived. Sorry.” 

Sherlock scanned the crowd again. They were starting to thin as they filtered into the theater. A familiar figure across the lobby caught his attention. They were dressed in a black jacket and red tie. He was lounging against a pillar and, as a group of people passed in front of him, he disappeared into the crowd, too quick to identify the man. 

Sherlock pursed his lips in frustration as he unfolded the stationary and a woman's handwriting was neatly scrawled across the paper.

 

_'Let's have dinner. If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me? New Year's Eve. 7:00 pm. Don't be late, and wear a jacket._

The Whip Hand.'

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Controlling his emotions was getting harder and harder as he went deeper into the role he was playing. This emotion, or rather a feeling; arousal, excitement, wasn't anything new to him, but now it was overwhelming. He ran a finger between his collar and neck.

_'Pupils dilated.'_

_'Pulse elevated.'_

“Is that from your host?” Alice was suddenly standing beside him as she gestured at the piece of stationary in his hand. 

“I...”Sherlock glanced at the doors into the theater and saw the figure again, this time staring at him and Alice, then falling in place with the crowd. “I thought you were my host?”

“No, I'm just your escort.” Alice looked in the same direction as Sherlock's gaze. “Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I keep thinking I see someone that I recognize in the crowd, but that can't be possible since I don't know anyone in the states, right?” 

Alice smiled up at him and her green eyes sparkled in the dim lights. “You know me.”

Sherlock couldn't help himself and smiled back. “Besides you.” He tucked the piece of stationary in his inside pocket. “Anyway, unless my host is an old friend of mine, I don't think the note is from my host.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Well, you should be receiving an invitation to have dinner on New Years with the owner of the business, and your host.” 

“My host's name wouldn't happen to be Irene, would it?” 

“Now that would be letting you in on too many secrets Mr. Scott.” Alice, again smiled brightly at Sherlock as she gestured at him. “Shall we go in?”

He held her gaze for a moment before he held out his arm. 

Sherlock surveyed the crowd as he let Alice lead them to their seat. He caught the blond hair out of the corner of his eye as he took his seat, third row back, third seat in. 

“Are you sure you're alright? You seem..edgy?” Alice asked.

He took a deep breath before he answered. “I'm fine, thank you.”

“I'll believe you this time, but your lies will only go so far with me.” Alice turned away as the corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in an ironic smile.

The house lights slowly dimmed as the heavy scarlet curtains raised and revealed an elaborate set and lighting set-up. Sherlock settled in, getting himself ready to be immersed in the music. 

However, as when Victoria Corso took the stage, every fiber of Sherlock's being came alive and vibrated with the realization of who this woman really was, and for only the third time in his life, Sherlock was unsure of himself.

He had no idea that 'The Woman' had such a voice. It left him breathless and he found it hard to stand for the ovation at the end.

“Would you like to meet the woman behind the voice?” Alice leaned into him and her warmth could be felt through his clothes. His body was betraying him, and he wasn't sure he would be able to control himself. 

He cleared his throat and concentrated on the irony of her question. 

“Yes, I would.” He answered her and she smiled up at him. They waited and watched as the crowd filed out into the lobby, then made their way down to the right hand side of the stage. Sherlock looked back at the seats and saw that the blonde man was gone. 

“Victoria?” Alice called a moment later after softly knocking on her open dressing room door. Her back was to them and she was looking down at her phone. 

“Yes, Alice come in. I-...” The woman stopped short and almost dropped her phone when she laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Even with the cropped blonde hair and glasses, she recognized the man. The way he smiled, the way he carried himself. It all screamed Sherlock Holmes, and he was supposed to be dead. 

“Victoria, this is William Scott. He has chosen the First Class package. Well, that is to say, it was chosen for him.” 

“Hello, Victoria, very nice to meet you.” Sherlock stepped forward with his hand held out as Irene stood, staring at the man in front of her. He gently grabbed her hand and kissed the top of it. Irene drew in a deep breath when his lips touched her hand. 

“Charmed,” was all that she could choke out as she scanned the man in front of her. 

“Are you okay? You look like you've just seen a ghost!” Alice placed her hand on Irene's shoulder. 

“I-I'm fine thank you.”

“You have a very lovely voice, Miss-”

“I couldn't find any top shelf wine...Oh hello!” Sherlock was interrupted by the blond man. Up close, Sherlock saw that he was the same man that Sherlock had talked to at the airport. “It's weird and good to see you again...I'm sorry what was your name again?” 

“William Scott.” Sherlock offered as he shook the other mans hand. 

“Nice to meet you again, Mr. Scott.” He turned to Alice and took her hand and kissed it. “Always a pleasure, Alice. You look stunning this evening.” 

“Thank you, Andrew. Charming as ever.” Alice gave a tight smile.

“And here is the star of the show, Miss Victoria Corso.” Andrew gestured in her direction. “My dear, you look pale. Do you need some water?” 

Andrew started to grab a bottle of water from the table behind him when Irene interrupted him. 

“Excuse us for a second please.” Irene flashed a smile to Sherlock and Alice as she grabbed Andrew's arm and pulled him out of the dressing room and shut the door. She pushed him down the dark corridor and when she was satisfied no one was around, slapped the man across his cheek. 

“What the hell-” The man held his hand on his cheek.

“Do you realize who is standing in my dressing room right now?” Irene said through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing with anger. 

“William Scott.” 

“God-damn Sherlock Holmes! He's supposed to be dead. I read his autopsy report, I've been to the man's grave! Mycroft Holmes even told me that he was dead!” 

Andrew grabbed her arm. “Remember what I told you, Irene. You must keep your heart out of this, or there will be disastrous consequences involved for you. Besides, you should know first hand that a death can be faked.” 

Irene was shaking. She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. 

“Do you understand?” Sebastian's anger shown through his disguise as his angry eyes bore through Irene and he shook her. 

“I understand.”

Sebastian let go of Irene and licked his lips. “Good. Sherlock Holmes is lucky I don't kill him on the spot. I need him – let me rephrase that. I need his brain. Shall we play the game?” He gestured down the hall where they came from. Irene took a breath and a moment to compose herself. Then nodded and walked down the corridor, aware that the world's greatest sniper was following her. 

“I'm sorry everyone. Forgive me for that.” Irene said as she walked into the room. 

The mark on Sebastian's cheek was the first thing that Sherlock noticed as he narrowed his eyes at the man. Sebastian glanced over at Sherlock, then took a double take when he realized the man was staring at him. He smirked and walked over to the wine. 

Irene cleared her throat. “I'll find some glasses.” 

“Thank you Victoria.” 

Sherlock watched Irene. Her actions weren't as bold as they usually were. She moved slower, more deliberately, like she was afraid of something. 

With a flourish, Sebastian poured the wine and handed the first glass to Irene, who smiled cautiously at him. 

“Thanks,” Alice said, the bitterness dripped from her voice. Sherlock looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Oh, Alice,” Sebastian pouted at her. To Sherlock, it was highly contrived, and an oddly familiar gesture. “Why must you always be so mean to me.” 

“Because I am not charmed by you.” 

She's lying. 

Increase in breath. 

Fidgety...

“Oh, but we both know that is a lie.” Sebastian gestured at Alice and his demeanor completely changed again. His eyes, dark, and an evil grin broke over his face. Another familiar expression. “When I walk up to you, your breathing becomes erratic, you play with your hair, and you purse your lips. All classic signs of attraction.” 

Sherlock saw the man's eyes slide briefly over to his. Sherlock furrowed his brow at the man. He still couldn't read him. 

Sebastian broke eye contact and smiled sweetly at Alice.

“Well, you are reading my body language all wrong. I am thoroughly disgusted with you. I just hope this isn't poisoned.” Alice took a drink of her wine and a heavy silence filled the room as every one watched Alice as she started playing with her hair and immediately stopped when she realized what she was doing. 

Sebastian's laughter cut through the silence as he turned to Sherlock and handed him a glass of wine. Sherlock took it hesitantly as Sebastian's dark eyes bore through him. 

“Now, you, William Scott should be the first one to worry about your glass. A new person in the mix, flirting with Victoria. We have yet to decide your fate.”

'Oh just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort.'

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. The tone, the manner...

Sherlock was the only one that saw the small change of expression that Sebastian gave. Then, the man leaned in close, close enough to feel the others hot breath on his ear. Sherlock's body was betraying him as his breath hitched when he could feel the others body heat through his clothes. 

“I owe you, Sherlock, and if you are not careful, I will put a bullet through all three hearts, yours too if you wish.” 

Sherlock's body stiffened as he cleared his throat and took a drink of the wine. Sebastian stepped back and smiled a knowing smile at Sherlock.

“That can be part of the package as well, if you like. I'm sure sweet Alice here wouldn't mind adding an addendum to your stay at the Nightingale.” He chuckled as he took a drink of his wine. 

Sherlock was aware of Alice and Irene staring at him as he pushed up his glasses. His usually clear and calculating mind tried to comprehend the situation in front of him. He knew from the experience at the swimming pool, that Moriarty was definitely not working alone; that he had help from a sniper, and one that was calculating and precise. What he had underestimated was the relationship of the Consulting Criminal and his Sniper. The web extended itself into America, and Sherlock Holmes had walked right into the middle of it.

 

~X~

 

John woke with a start. He tried to focus on his surroundings and control his breathing.

“John?” 

The soft voice startled him to the point he flew out of his bed. He exhaled when he saw the red hair and Sarah's pretty, but tired face. She sat up and tucked her hair behind her ear as she pulled the blankets up to cover herself. 

“Um, John, you might want to cover up.” Sarah was biting her lip, trying not to laugh as she gave him a once over with her eyes. 

“Oh god,” he said as he flew back into the bed and covered up. He held his head in his hands and groaned. “I'm sorry. I'm not used to having anyone sleeping in the same bed as me.” 

“I noticed.” She placed her arm around him and leaned into him. “Are you alright? Did you have a bad dream?” 

John almost made the conscience decision to confess all of his dreams and nightmares to Sarah. He knew she would understand. But would it scare her away? Dreaming about someone who you only knew for a year and a half. Dreaming about someone who insulted you in one sentence and apologized for it in the next, or later, or the next day. Dreaming about someone who made the biggest impact on your life; and you invaded a country. Yes, it would scare her away. 

“I'm alright.” He mumbled into the blanket, leaning into Sarah, letting her body heat comfort him as she rubbed his back. 

“Happy Christmas.” 

John's head suddenly shot up. “Oh, it is isn't it?” 

She chuckled at him. “Yes-”

“I have a present for you!” He said as he hopped out of bed and put on his robe and ran downstairs. 

“Here,” John was breathless when he returned. 

Sarah took the small package that was wrapped in gold and dressed with a red ribbon. She had an idea that Mrs. Hudson probably wrapped it, but she wasn't about to say anything. She bit her lip trying to suppress a giggle as she opened it. 

“What are you sniggering at?”

“You do realize you went downstairs with no pants on, right?” 

John cleared his throat and pulled his robe tighter around him. “Yeah, well, you don't have any knickers on yourself.” He finished his sentence in a huff and crossed his arms.

She smiled at him and finished opening the present. 

“Oh, John, this...this is-”

“The song that played on our second date? Yes, it is!”

“But how..?” 

“I simply inquired about it later, after you gushed about it.” 

Sarah sat up on her knees and grabbed john by his robe, not caring that the sheet had fallen away from her body, and kissed him, hard. It caught him off guard at first and he struggled to get his balance and she smiled into the kiss. Then he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her nakedness against his own through his robe. He trailed his kisses down her neck as she moaned her approval. He grabbed her upper arms and gently pushed her back onto the bed. She yelped as she landed on the cold CD case and lifted her buttocks to grab it and set it on the side table. She turned to see John smiling like an idiot at her and she smiled and laughed at him. John caught her in another passionate kiss as her hands traveled underneath his robe. 

 

“I like this flat. It's cozy.” Wendy said an hour later as she took a drink of the coffee that Harry had made for her. 

“Yeah, but as much as the peace and quiet would be nice, I think we would be bored in this part of town.” Harry sat across from her girlfriend. 

“Mm, I think I could get used to it, being close to your brother and settling into something that was ours...” 

“Woo hoo!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice interrupted Wendy as Harry gaped at her. 

“We are in here Mrs. Hudson!” Wendy called then took another drink of her coffee. 

“Oh, hello ladies!” The elder woman was carrying a large tray that was covered with a towel. Harry recovered herself and helped her with the tray. 

“I don't mean to interrupt, but I have a tradition with all of my renters. I bring them my home-made cinnamon rolls as long as they have a small gathering on Christmas Eve.” She grabbed the towel off the tray with a flourish and the most scrumptious cinnamon rolls that the ladies had ever laid eyes on were sitting there, innocent and waiting to be eaten. 

“My gosh, Mrs. Hudson!” It was Wendy's turn to gape. “They look wonderful!” 

“Well, dig in!” Mrs. Hudson handed each of them a plate as John and Sarah entered the kitchen, both in their pyjamas, and a little rumpled, and both smiling. 

“Well, there's the two lovebirds.” Harry winked at them. “I thought you two would just stay in bed all day. I know I would if I didn't have family staying with me!” 

They both blushed as John walked over to Mrs. Hudson and placed his hand on her arm and pecked her on the cheek. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Happy Christmas.” 

It was her turn to blush as her words came out in a rush. “Oh, well, for what, John? Do you want a cinnamon roll?” 

“Of course. Sarah?” He said as he looked at her knowingly. 

“Yes, please,” Sarah smiled as she sat beside Wendy. “They look and smell divine.”

“They are divine. And melty and moist and … mmmmm...” 

Everyone laughed at her as she took another bite of her roll. 

Mrs. Hudson served them coffee as they chatted and ate their rolls. After a bit, a concerned look came over her face as she looked around. 

“What is it, then?” John asked.

“Where are Molly and Greg?” 

“Oh, they decided to stay at Molly's house. I think Craig decided to take a couple more glasses of wine, so he grabbed a ride from them.” 

“Those two,” Mrs. Hudson smiled and sighed as a far away look came over her face. John smiled as he looked around at the table. He realized that Mrs. Hudson could have been talking about anyone at the table as well. This wasn't a feeling he had felt in a very, very long time; a feeling of security, a feeling of love and being loved, a feeling of peace, even though he knew there was danger lurking out there, waiting for the right moment to strike, he felt at peace here, in this place, at this moment. 

 

~X~

 

Molly rolled over and slowly opened her eyes, wondering if everything that happened last night was a dream. When she saw the silver hair and handsome features on the pillow next to hers, she knew it wasn't a dream and a warm feeling flooded her entire being. Careful not to wake Greg, she propped herself onto her elbow and watched him. He looked so much at peace. No stress, no worries, just sleep. She leaned over and softly kissed him on the forehead. He seemed to sigh and she smiled. Molly kissed his cheek and he hummed his approval as he turned his head in her direction. His eyes were still closed and she couldn't be sure if he was still asleep. She watched him for a minute, making note of the gray stubble that was forming on his chin and the crinkles beside his eyes. 

“Quit staring at me,” he mumbled and Molly started. “It makes me nervous.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Molly said as she rolled over. Greg suddenly had his arm around her, pinning her down. She let out a small yelp before he kissed her. 

“Happy Christmas,” he said as he parted. He propped himself up with one arm and stared into her coffee brown eyes and smiled. He brushed a stray hair out of her face and kissed her brow. 

“I should brush my teeth and my hair-” she started to get up, but Greg held her down. 

“I should too, but you don't seem to be minding right now.” 

Molly smirked at him and he kissed her even more passionately than before. His hand went underneath her head and his other traveled the length of her naked body, sending shivers up her spine. He kissed her cheek, then her neck as she moaned her approval. Molly's hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they explored Greg's body. 

 

An hour later, Molly was freshly showered and sitting at her tiny kitchen table, reading the morning paper and sipping at her steaming cup of coffee. Greg was in the shower now, and her thoughts wandered to the previous Christmas. The Christmas that she'll always remember as the one where Sherlock actually apologized and kissed her on the cheek. The one where Greg ogled her all night, but didn't make a move. The one where she was called in to do an autopsy on a body that supposedly only Sherlock could identify. Molly had never gotten a straight answer from Sherlock, nor his brother on whom the woman was on her table. She had been beautiful at one point, Molly had thought. But her face was all sorts of bashed in, and Sherlock had to identify her from the rest of her body. How had he known? Never had she ever seen him with a woman, or talk a bout a woman. 

'Why couldn't I have been that woman whose body Sherlock worshiped so much that he identified her by only her body?' Molly thought to herself, then chuckled. 'Maybe I should be lucky not to be that woman 'cause I would be six-feet under right now.' 

She shivered and sniffed, then took a sip of her coffee and realized she hadn't checked her phone for messages. Leaning over, she unplugged her cell-phone from the charger and turned it on. After swiping through the various Facebook status's and answering a few, she checked her phone messages. One from her parents last night and a missed phone call from Greg. Just one and he hadn't left a message. Molly frowned at her phone as she made a mental note to call her parents later and checked her texts. One from Sherlock's new number. 

'Happy Christmas, Molly. You do count.' 

Molly grinned like a little school girl. She hated keeping in touch with Sherlock behind everyone’s back. She felt like a betrayer; like she was stabbing everyone in the back. Especially John. She wondered what John would give to get a text from Sherlock right now. Closing her eyes, she fought back the tears that were forming and took a deep breath. Saving the message, Molly noted that there was one more text from a number that she didn't recognize. Normally, she would have erased it, but the subject line read JM. Goosebumps formed on her skin as she held her breath and opened the text. 

'You look pretty, Molly. Don't forget our date.' 

Molly gasped and dropped her phone on the table, cringing at it. 

“Molly? Are you alright?” 

She gasped again when she heard Greg's voice beside her. 

“Yeah, sorry. I-I thought I saw a...a spider.” 

Greg furrowed his brow at her and cocked his head at her in disbelief. 

“Uh...okay, well,” he turned and started to explore her tiny kitchen. “I am hungry. Do you have anything to make breakfast with?” 

“Um...” Molly started as she looked at her phone again. She erased the message and continued. “I probably don't.” 

But as she looked up, she saw that Greg had a half a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs on the counter and he was sniffing some sausage he had found in the freezer as he turned and grinned at her. 

“I bought some breakfast items last night between the flat and here.”

“Oh pish!” She grinned back at him. “So that's why you had the Cheshire cat grin on your face last night when I got back from Craig's !” 

“Oh yeah!” Greg smiled and turned to make breakfast. 

Molly sighed. She could get used to this little piece of domestication. She picked up the paper again and leafed through it, finding the section on culture. After a minute of looking, she found a small article on a violin player named Sigerson who made a 'stunning debut' in Russia last night. She smirked to herself. Sherlock had texted her a brilliant little plan and all she had to do was plant a note at the detective's grave-site. Mycroft would put the plan into action by power of suggestion. Molly knew there wasn't really any way to find out if their plan would work, but just imagining the giddy grin when he reads the article, was satisfying enough for her.


	13. Convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is starting to suspect Sherlock is alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _As days go by, the nights on fire._  
>  Tell me, would you kill to save a life  
> Tell me, would you kill to prove you're right.  
> Crash, crash, burn...let it all burn.  
> This Hurricane's chasing us all underground.
> 
>  
> 
> "Hurricane"  
> ~Thirty Seconds to Mars~

“A toast to Victoria and her beautiful voice!” Sebastian raised his glass and waited for everyone to raise theirs. 

“May it stay beautiful throughout her lifetime.” He took a drink and everyone followed suit. 

Tension crackled through Sherlock's head like electricity as he tried to read Sebastian to no avail. Instead, he shifted his thinking and found all the vulnerable parts on his body. Sherlock took a deep breath, his vision cleared. Other than the handgun in a holster on Sebastian's left side, Sherlock found all of the pressure points and where to strike to put Sebastian down long enough for the three to make an escape. 

Sherlock smirked and took a drink of his wine.

“Something amusing, William?” Sebastian turned to him.

“Just the fact that in five minutes you will be on the floor writhing in pain.” 

Sebastian answered with his own smirk. 

“And how do you figure that?”

“Like this.” Sherlock set his glass of wine on the closest surface. He stepped up to Sebastian, brought his left hand up and sent the others champagne flying into his face. Sherlock brought his right hand down onto Sebastian's neck. Sebastian somehow held his grip on the champagne glass. Sherlock grabbed his right hand and jammed it down on the closest surface. The glass shattered as Sebastian grunted and Sherlock clocked him with a left hook. Sebastian stumbled and caught his breath. He stepped forward and came after Sherlock with his left but Sherlock had his hand up to block. It was too late as Sebastian came around with his bloodied right hand and caught Sherlock square on the cheekbone. A piece of glass wedged in Sebastian's hand cut Sherlock, but he didn't notice as he started for Sebastian who wasn't prepared for Sherlock to recover so quickly. Sherlock grabbed his right arm and twisted and stomped on his foot as he tried to bring his left hand around. Sherlock brought his elbow down onto Sebastian's elbow and grabbed his left hand and used the momentum to throw Sebastian to the floor. He swung his arm and gave Sebastian a hard right, breaking his nose. Sherlock quickly grabbed Sebastian's firearm and aimed it at the man.

“STOP!” Everyone froze as Irene held up her own gun and aimed it at Sherlock. 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock's voice rumbled throughout the room. 

Alice looked back and forth from Irene to Sherlock not knowing what to do.

Irene tried to steady herself as she cocked the gun.

“You were supposed to be dead,” Irene said, her voice shaking. 

“Yes well,” Sherlock brought the butt of the gun across Sebastian's forehead and knocked the man out cold. “You're not the only one that is good at disappearing.”

He tucked the gun in his waistband in the backside of his pants. Grabbing Alice by her forearm, he started out of the room. 

“You can stay here, but I don't think you will be alive long enough to walk out of the theater.” 

Irene narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. Then looked down at Sebastian’s unconscious form on the floor. The room was quiet except for a sob from Alice. 

'Shit,' Irene said under her breath, then aloud: “Let's get out before the bastard wakes up.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” Sherlock said into his phone as he walked out of the theater. Him, Alice and Irene only paused long enough to grab their jackets from the front. 

“Be careful, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered. “Three times becomes a tradition.”

“Yes, especially since you let your little brother walk into danger again.” Sherlock opened the door to the limo for the ladies as the driver trotted up to them. He ran to the other side and opened a door for Sherlock as he instructed the driver where to go. 

“I'm sure I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Yes, I'm sure you didn't know that Irene Adler and Sebastian Moran were waiting to kill me on Christmas.” 

The line was silent for a beat, as Irene cringed. 

Sherlock heard Mycroft sigh loudly. 

“Irene was only supposed to be a contact. A way to get to Moran-”

“It seems you've been played as well. Get rid of this number and any other information you have on William Scott. He doesn't exist anymore.” 

“Sherlock, I don't think-”

“He doesn't exist either.” 

 

“What the hell is going on in that adled brain of yours, Sher-” Irene was running to catch up with Sherlock as he walked into The Nightingale.

“Don't-” He stopped suddenly and Irene almost ran into him. “Don't call me that name...”

He pursed his lips and closed his eyes. Irene watched him take a deep breath as she felt Alice at her elbow. 

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Alice asked between chattering teeth.

“A grand illusion.” Sherlock gestured wildly. “We have to move quickly. I suspect Moran will have his goons here shortly.” 

He turned to walk inside but Irene grabbed his arm and turned him back around. 

“What the hell do you have planned?” She said through gritted teeth. 

“Follow me and I will tell you.” Sherlock nodded at Alice. “You too. I have a plan for you.”

“Do you have an alternate identity for Alice?” He asked Irene as they walked across the lobby.

Irene and Alice looked at each other with knowing expressions. 

“Alice is my alternate identity.” Alice kept her pace with Sherlock as she took off the chestnut wig and revealed short blonde, bobbed hair.

“I am Mary Morstan. It's nice to finally meet you Sherlock Holmes.” 

Sherlock slowed his pace and raised his eyebrows. 

“See something you like?” Mary smiled at him.

'I know someone who would.' He thought as he increased his pace up the stairs. He brought his phone out of his pocket. 

He glanced at Mary as he brought the phone to his ear. With her blond hair, something about the woman keeping pace with him made his brain pause and his pulse quicken and- 

“Are they ready?” Sherlock said when he heard a voice on the other end. He let himself into his room as the ladies followed him. 

“Everyone and everything is in place sir.” 

“Good. Initiate Nightingale Plan B now and make sure you erase me and this number.” 

Sherlock hung up and turned to the two ladies. Irene was pacing Mary walked into the bathroom and Sherlock watched her as she returned with a washcloth. 

“You're bleeding.” Was all she said as she handed him the cloth. This woman was just as intriguing as Irene, and Sherlock hated the way his body was reacting to her. He stared at her mesmerizing green eyes as he turned his cheek to her. She hesitated, then taking a deep breath, she gently wiped the blood off his cheek.

“Ever been to London, Miss Mary Morstan?” 

“I am originally from Heath, actually.” Mary grinned as she finished. Sherlock looked at her again, taking in her features, trying to read her. 

_Only child._

_Took care of parents at early age._

_Father's little darling._

_Has spent time in India._

_Tattoo behind ear is Buddist symbol._

Mary exhaled and Sherlock blinked.

“Good, you will blend right in.” Sherlock started to dial a number, when Irene suddenly had an iron grip on his wrist. 

“Tell me what we are doing,” she brought a gun out from inside her jacket and pointed it at his head. “And I might decide to let you live.” 

“Miss Irene Adler, I don't think you have a choice at this point. If you kill me, Sebastian will find you here and kill you.” He looked directly into her eyes. He could see the fear and trepidation there as he carefully pushed the gun away from his head with one finger. He leaned in until he was at her ear. “Besides jealousy doesn't look good on you.” 

“You frustrate me, Mr. Holmes.” Irene said, then clenched her jaw. 

“Good, now you have to trust me.” 

Mary watched them as Irene was breathless. Her eyes flickered back and forth between his hardened gray eyes. 

“Quickly, now Miss Adler. Sebastian is on his way and I'm sure he is out for blood.” 

She let out a breath and uncocked the gun, then placed it inside her jacket. 

“Fine,” she answered. “Just this once.” 

“Good.” Sherlock brought the phone up to his ear, not breaking eye contact with Irene. “Mycroft, I need a favor and an airline ticket for one to London, please.” 

 

“You are insane!” Mary yelled as they were running in the underground parking lot. Sherlock had left all of William Sherrinford Scott's belongings in his room, along with the phone and his and the gun that Irene had. He instructed the ladies to grab what they could in five minutes and meet him by the elevator that went down the parking lot they were running across now. 

“You can't blow this place up!” Mary continued. “Irene's put too much of her heart and soul into the Nightingale.” 

“Sentiment is a dangerous thing, I thought you learned your lesson, Irene?” 

Mary glanced over at Irene who glared at Sherlock. 

“Ah, good, just where I told Louis to leave it.” Sherlock said as he opened a panel in the wall and brought out another phone. 

“My Limo driver?” Irene put her hands on her hips. 

“Not anymore,” he said and dialed a number. “Are we clear?” 

“Building's evacuated, sir.” Louis answered on the other line. 

“Good show man. Meet us tomorrow, in the designated spot.” 

“Looking forward to it, sir.” 

Sherlock hung up and pressed a combination of numbers on the phone. He placed it back in the panel in the wall. 

“Let's go. We have two minutes.” Sherlock started running again and it took him half way across to realize he wasn't being followed. 

“Ladies!” He slowed his pace and started trotting backwards. He could almost see the wheels turn in Irene's head as she was contemplating all the options she did not have. 

“One minute, thirty seconds,” He called as he turned and started running again. 

 

They were halfway up the hill behind the Nightingale when the ground shook with the explosion of the building. The three ducked as the wind from the blast blew past them. They waited for debris to settle, then took off running further up the hill. 

“Damn,” Irene said breathlessly when they decided to stop and observe. “Who would have thought three years of good planning and success could be ruined in just seconds.” 

“Mmm...” Sherlock started. “Don't forget a years worth of a weapons cache and drugs stashed in your basement. 

“What the hell?” Mary cried. 

Irene clenched her jaw. 

“I see everything, Irene. Do not forget that.” Sherlock squeezed her wrist as he passed by on his way up the hill. 

“What the hell kind of operation were you running down there?” Mary asked as sirens could be heard in the distance. 

“An honest to goodness brothel, or so I thought.” Irene said as she stared at the orange glow below her. She also saw a car approaching what was left of The Nightingale and instantly recognized it. She knew it wouldn't be long before Sebastian would find her again. Until then, she would be always looking over her shoulder. 

 

~X~X~

 

“Happy Christmas!” Molly called as she tapped on the door to 221B.

“Oh Molly and Greg!” Mrs. Hudson said as she hugged each of them. “Let me take your coats.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Greg said as he shed his coat. 

“We brought sweets.” Molly handed the older woman a medium sized brownie pan that was wrapped with green and red ribbons. 

“Oh, Molly, you shouldn't have!” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she took the pan. “What is it sweetheart?”

“It's fudge.” Molly smiled. “I may not be able to cook a lick, but I sure can bake like a mad woman!” 

“I heard fudge,” Wendy called. “Bring the fudge!” 

A smattering of giggles followed as the three smiled and walked into the sitting room. Everyone hugged and greeted each other as Mrs. Hudson brought the jackets into Sherlock's room. She tried not to spend too much time there, but something drew her in, whether it was the memory of him, or just nostalgia, she found herself wandering around the room. It was just like he left it. She hadn't touched anything, and as far as she knew, John rarely, if ever came into this room. Mrs. Hudson picked up a framed photograph that was placed on the dresser and smiled at the faces of Mycroft and Sherlock. Young and handsome and hopeful and very alive. 

“Mrs. Hudson?” Greg was leaning against the door frame. He had never really seen Sherlock's room in the daylight, and the little time he had spent in there with Molly the other night, he hadn't bothered to look around. Now, as he watched Mrs. Hudson, he found himself looking around the room. It was sparse, but Greg wasn't sure what he was expecting from the bedroom of a consulting detective. 

“Are you okay in here?” He continued. 

She smiled at him. “Yes, thank you. I don't come in here often, and it kind of gives me the willies to be standing here now.” 

He gestured for her to come to him when he saw her shiver. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. 

“It's going to take a lot of time for all of us.” He said into her hair. 

“Thank you, Greg.” 

“For what?” He leaned away from her to look at her. 

“For being here. For staying with John.” She inhaled loudly. “For being strong for all of us.” 

Greg wrapped both arms around the woman and held her close to him. “I hardly think that I am strong, but thank you for thinking that of me.” 

He could feel her sobbing when John approached them. 

“Everything okay back here?” 

Mrs. Hudson leaned away from Greg, but let his arm linger on the small of her back. It was a small but comforting gesture. She brought a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. 

“I came out from the loo and found her in Sherlock's room.” 

“Oh,” John walked up to her and squeezed her arm. 

“Oh, John,” she collapsed against him and he wrapped his arms around her. 

“I know...” he rubbed her back as Greg placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder. John smiled at him in acknowledgment. 

“I have to use-” Molly stopped short when she saw the group in the hall. “Oh, I'm sorry I-” 

“It's okay Molly,” Mrs. Hudson stepped away from John and swiped at her eyes with the handkerchief. She mouthed a thank you to John and Greg, then straightened herself. “We are being terrible hosts. Let's let the lady do her business.” 

She gestured for John and Greg to clear the hall and they complied as Molly smiled timidly at them. 

“Greg,” she whispered loudly and he turned. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I came out of the loo and found Mrs. Hudson in Sherlock's bedroom.” 

“Oh,” Molly answered and nodded as Greg turned to join everyone in the sitting room. 

Molly was in the loo and saw the door that connected to Sherlock's room. She had only been in there once and that was with Greg, ironically. But lord only knows how many times she fantasized herself in that room with Sherlock, his pale arms on each side of her warm naked body. His hard body pressed against hers, kissing her neck and-

Molly shook her head and turned on the cold tap and splashed water on her face. She grabbed the hand-towel and patted dry and caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. 

_“I owe you...”_

She started. The voice was so real and she swore she could feel the breath on her ear. She inhaled deeply and buried her face in the towel. 

When her heart stopped thumping in her ears, she lifted her head and looked at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, but the rest of her was pale. She shook her head to try to clear it and hung the towel. She brought her chapstick and lipstick out and dabbed them on her lips. Molly took out her ponytail and ran her hands through her hair and put it back up in a neater pony. She nodded, satisfied at her appearance. 

Molly wasn't sure what made her pass through the kitchen on her way to the sitting room. Maybe it was the lure of cinnamon, or just plain curiosity that John had read the paper. She convinced herself of both and called out to have a roll. Mrs. Hudson told her to help herself, and Harry added that they would be the very last cinnamon rolls she would have. Everyone giggled and Molly cut herself a roll. She found a plate and a towel to wipe the frosting and turned to the table. She found the morning paper and flipped through to the section she was looking for and tucked it under her arm as she walked out to the sitting room. 

“Hey, I don't get any?” Greg pouted from the arm of one of the chairs. 

“Oh,” Molly said around a mouthful of roll. 

“It's alright,” Greg smiled and stood and walked over to her. He kissed her on her forehead. “I can get my own.” 

Molly smiled at him and walked over to where John was sitting next to Sarah. They exchanged pleasantries and Molly turned to John. 

“I read an article this morning that I think you will be interested in.” She handed the paper to John who took it and thanked Molly. She nodded and walked over to the chair at the table below the crazy cow skull to watch John out of the corner of her eye. 

“What is the article, hun?” Sarah asked as she read over his shoulder.

“I dunno,” John said as he scanned the section. His eye landed on a familiar name. 

Sigerson.

_Sigerson._

"If you wish to keep track of my whereabouts, follow the concert career of a violinist named Sigerson." 

“Sigerson.” John whispered. 

“Whom?” Sarah asked still scanning the paper. “Oh the violinist who made a 'stunning debut' in Russia. Maybe he will make an appearance here and we can see him.” 

Sarah kissed John's cheek and rose from her seat. 

John bit his lip and looked up at Molly and she winked at him. He looked back down at the article and finished reading, and a sudden realization hit him. 

What if, by some dumb miracle, Sherlock is alive and he is sending John messages somehow? 

John saw Molly rise and he followed her into the kitchen to rinse her plate. 

“Molly, how did you know?” 

“Just an instinct,” she started, but saw the serious look on his face. 

“Molly,” John paused to think about what he was going to say, making sure it didn't make him sound completely crazy. “Molly, I read an article in yesterday's morning paper about -” 

Molly looked at him expectantly. 

“I should involve Greg in this conversation.” 

Molly furrowed her brow at John and watched him walk off and grab Greg from his perch. He said something to him, then ran upstairs to his room. Greg rinsed his plate as he kissed Molly on the cheek. 

John bounded into the kitchen with a manilla folder and they looked at him wide-eyed. 

“You guys will probably think I am nuts, but, just bear with me.” He said as he unfolded the folder and took out pictures and profiles of five people. “Last year, right before Sherlock's death, Mycoft called me to his Club, and showed me the pictures of these people. They were assassins who had moved in on our block.” John paused and held up a newspaper article. “I read this yesterday.” 

Greg took it and read aloud: “Russian assassin Lyudmilla Diachenkov was found and arrested in Moscow yesterday. Experts aren't saying, but it is speculated that she was part of a ring of assassins assigned by Jim Moriarty to assassinate high public figures.”

“Moriarty was the bloke you found on the roof wasn't it?” Molly asked.

“Yeah,” Greg looked up at John. “So you think Moriarty had assassins move in on your block to keep an eye on Sherlock?” 

“Well, I wasn't sure myself, until the evening before Sherlock died, two of them were killed because they had talked to Sherlock.” 

“What does this have to do with Sigerson?” Molly knew exactly what the connection was. In the back of her mind she was cursing Sherlock for putting her in this position. Then she cursed herself for allowing herself to be put in this position. 

John smirked at both of them. 'So this is how Sherlock felt around everyone who didn't get his deductions.' 

Aloud he said: “Well, and just bear with me, I think Sherlock survived that fall somehow and now he's out trying to get these assassins.”

“John, I did the autopsy, there-” 

“Molly, we both know that bodies can be switched and DNA can be planted.” John tried to keep his frustrations in check. “Irene Adler is proof of that!” 

“But-” 

“It's a trick, Molly, it's all a magic trick.” John took a deep breath and looked out toward the sitting room. “And I want to know why.”


	14. The Pawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have read my little fic! Hope you enjoy the new chapter.

Molly Hooper's mind was racing. She should have never planted the Sigurson seed in John Watson's head. It was just a ploy, conjured up by Mycroft, to help keep him grounded; to help keep him sane. Now John was theorizing and making up conspiracies. As much as Molly didn't like the idea, she was going to have to contact Sherlock's brother. She had only met him twice, but he was very intimidating and he made her feel small, even smaller than Sherlock did most of the time. 

“Ah, come now, John,” Lestrade said, gesturing at the other man. “You sound like a conspiracy theorist. You can't believe what you just said?” 

Molly saw the disappointment creep into John's eyes and bit her lip. 

“You don't believe me? You, Greg, of all people?” 

“Well, it's great and everything, but Sherlock is dead, John.” Lestrade reached out and squeezed John's shoulder. “I'm sorry, I know that you want to think he's alive and-”

“No Greg, listen to me!” John slammed his hand down on the table as he spoke. Greg glanced at Molly who returned his concerned look. 

“How do you explain the incident with the scarf?” 

Greg opened his mouth, then quickly shut it. 

“What incident?” Molly looked from John to Greg with a furrowed brow.

“It's-” John paused, drawing in a deep breath. He saw Sherlock fall with his own two eyes. He saw the blood on the sidewalk. He felt Sherlock's still warm hand with no pulse. He saw them take his lifeless body away on a stretcher. 

And yet, somehow, Sherlock was in the cab with him on that night. John would have thought it was his mind playing tricks on him if Greg hadn't seen the man get out of the cab as well. 

“Do you remember the night that we went out for drinks, and got a little more tipsy than we should have?” 

Both Greg and Molly nodded.

“Well,” John swallowed, hard. “I was down at Borthwick Wharf looking at the mural that Raz had painted, and on my way back to the cab, I was attacked-”

“What the-”

“John!” 

Molly and Greg exclaimed at the same time, but John stopped them. 

“I was saved by Sherlock, or possibly his doppelganger; he left his scarf with me, and I had placed it on the mantel. The next day it was gone.” John grabbed Molly's hand and traced a finger along the scar. Molly pursed her lips as Greg started to protest, John interrupted. 

“Have you told Greg about this? About the little present you got in the mail?” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Greg turned a hard gaze on Molly. 

“Hey guys,” Sarah interrupted as she entered the room. “What's going on in here? Sounds intense.”

Greg and Molly shifted as John walked over to where Sarah stood. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry, love. We'll be out soon, I promise.”

Sarah poked her bottom lip out. “It's Christmas, John, and as much as I like Mrs. Hudson and your sister and her girlfriend, I want to spend it with you.”

John drew in a breath and looked over at Molly and Greg who looked at them with sympathy. 

“Alright, we can continue this conversation later.” He kissed her on the temple and smiled. “I'm sorry, Sarah.”

She leaned into him. “It's alright. I'll forgive you this time.” 

Greg cleared his throat as Sarah and John looked over at him. He signaled them to look up. 

When they did, they saw the mistletoe and both blushed and laughed nervously. John grabbed Sarah and bent her over in a dip and kissed her. Sarah giggled into the kiss and John pulled her up and smiled at her. He wrapped an arm around her and they walked into the sitting room. 

Molly drew in a breath. Greg looked over at her as she bit her lip. 

“Listen, Greg I-”

“Molly, what's go-”

They looked at each other and broke out in nervous laughter. 

Molly played with her hair. “Greg, I am really sorry about not telling you about this.” 

She held out her hand and Greg took it and traced his finger over the scar. Molly hissed at the bizarre numb feeling that it left. Greg brought her hand up and kissed it. 

“I just wish you could be completely up front with me. This makes me feel like you are hiding other things from me. I want to be with you Molly, but we can't have a relationship if we can't trust each other.” 

Molly's bottom lip trembled. 

Then her arms were wrapped around Greg's neck and she was apologizing into his ear. 

He hesitated for a second, then wrapped his arms around her.

“Are you ready to tell me what's going on?” He asked when they separated. 

Molly drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Greg reached up and wiped the tears off her cheeks. 

“Molly?”

“I'm sorry, I just,” she paused to clear the sob out of her throat. Greg placed his hand on her shoulder. She reveled in the weight and comfort of it. 

“Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“No, I'll be fine here.” Molly wiped the tears from her eyes with her sleeve and leaned up against the counter. She proceeded to talk about the incident with the coffee cup, when she remembered she still had the poem in her jacket pocket. Molly excused herself and retrieved the poem. Her hand was shaking when she handed it to Greg and he encased her hand in both of his and kissed it. He looked up at her and she had a small worried smile on her face. He wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her closer to him as he snuggled his face into her warm belly. 

“I need to sit down,” she pulled the closest chair to her and sat. 

“I'll get you some water.” Greg stood and went to the refrigerator to get a bottle of water. 

Molly in the meantime had her head in her hands. She started to relax when Greg started to rub her back. 

“Molly, talk to me.” Greg set the water in front of the woman and sat in his chair, all the while, keeping his hand on her back. 

She opened the water bottle and took a drink as her phone started ringing. Greg raised his eyebrows and she furrowed her brow as she dug for the phone. It was a number she had seen only once before, and it led to a plot that was ended in Sherlock's fake death. She swallowed hard. 

“I should get this, sorry.” 

Greg nodded.

Molly couldn't get outside fast enough to answer, so she called back hoping the party would answer. 

“This is Molly Hooper.”

“Molly, this is Mycroft Holmes. I need you to start on the second part of our plan as soon as you can. Things...have changed and not for the better.”

Molly gasped. 

“Is Sherlock alright?” 

The silence was palpable.

“No, I'm sorry Molly, but this time he really is dead. A bomb went off in the Nightingale Inn, where he was staying under the assumed name of William Scott. There were maybe one or two survivors, one of which had direct contact with Sherlock.” Mycroft paused, not only out of respect, but he also needed Molly's full attention.

Molly was dazed. He was dead. Sherlock was really dead this time. 

“Molly, I need you to listen to me.” Mycroft's voice cut into her sorrow.

“I'm sorry, what?” 

“Molly, please listen carefully. I will be contacting you here in the next couple days to pick up one of the survivors at Heathrow Airport. I will give you instructions and a description then. Do you understand, Molly?”

She sniffed. “Yes, yes I understand.”

“I am very sorry Molly.”

Molly was trying to hold back her sobs when she remembered John.

“Wait! Before you hang up. I have...I have a small dilemma.”

Mycroft shifted in his chair. He hated small dilemmas. They usually ended up being bigger dilemmas. “What is it?”

“It-...It's John.” Molly hesitated. She loved John and she didn't want to put him in any danger. But when the Holmes brothers are involved there was always danger. Molly was all too aware of that now.

“What about John?” On the other hand, Mycroft only had good intentions for John. He was aware of the changes that John brought out in Sherlock. He was also well aware of the close bond they shared, and when Sherlock 'died', he saw a small piece of John die with him. 

“He's...he's starting to figure things out,” Molly paused again and ran her hand through her hair. “He's piecing things together with this whole Sigurson thing, and with the assassination in Russia and -”

“Molly?” Mycroft's tone was low and slightly menacing.

“Yeah?”

“John is included in the revised plan. He will be taken care of. He will be distracted to the point that he will forget about his little divination.” 

Molly took a couple deep breaths.

“Molly, listen to me.” Mycroft's tone was even and soft now. A tone normally reserved for Sherlock when he was out of control. “Sherlock trusted you infinitely with his plan, which means I trust you as well. I don't give out that trust that often given my position. I understand that you two worked together on occasion and that you housed him for a while as well. I really am truly sorry. I do, however expect reciprocation. ”

Molly bit her lip. 

“In other words, trust me, Molly when I say that everything will be alright.”

A movement above caught her attention and she saw John peeking out at her.

“Thank you Mycroft. I should go.” 

“Trust, Molly. Don't forget.” 

Molly hung up. She swallowed hard, trying to calm herself. She bent over trying to calm her breathing; the cold was helping, making her body aware that it needed to stay warm. Her breathing started to normalize, but her brain was going a hundred miles an hour. 

Molly held the phone with a tight grip and mumbled to herself as she climbed the seventeen steps to the flat. John was back in the kitchen grabbing something from the fridge and Greg was leaning against the counter. 

“Everything okay Molly?” John asked as he poured egg nog into five cups. “Do you want some by the way?”

“Are you adding any special ingredients?” She asked as she wrung her hands. 

John smirked. “Yes.”

“Then yes, light on the nog, please.” 

Both Greg and John raised an eyebrow at her, then Greg turned to John. “Ya know what, make mine the same.” 

John smirked again and finished making the drinks. He left two in the kitchen for Molly and Greg and brought the others in the living room with him. 

“So you read the note?” Molly asked as she wrapped her hands around her drink. 

“Yes,” Greg said and took a drink. He grimaced at the cup. “Molly why didn't you come to me sooner about this? I could have prote-”

“Protected me from what? This note and a text are the only things I have from him so far.”   
Molly said, pointing at the paper, then taking a drink. 

Greg stared into his cup, hoping the answers would appear. Instead, more questions arose. 

“Was it Moriarty on your table?”

Molly shot him a look. “Yes. Yes it was.” 

“Then who is this creep? And how does he know so much about you?” 

The woman took a deep breath. “If I knew that, don't you think I would send the hit squad on him?” 

“True,” Greg took another drink and mentally kicked himself for asking such a stupid question. He reached over and rested his hand on Molly's arm.

She looked up and smiled at him, and he smiled back and sighed. 

“Listen,” he said. “Let's just put this at the back of our minds for now. Let's enjoy Christmas.” 

“Yes, let's.” She sighed as she pulled Greg in for a passionate kiss.

 

 

~*X*X*X*~ 

Sherlock watched as Mary tucked her blond hair into a wig that had straight shoulder length black hair and blunt bangs. With the ruby red lips that Irene painted on her, Mary looked Gothic; like someone out of a vampire show that he had watched on some crap telly show. Sherlock had a strange feeling at the pit of his stomach. He was upset at himself. He was upset that he didn't catch the disguise. 

“D'you the big problem with a disguise Mr. Holmes? However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.” 

Mary felt Sherlock's intense gaze on her and turned and smiled at him. He squinted at her. His deductions of her didn't change, they multiplied. 

Guardian.  
Nurse.  
Second tattoo somewhere unmentionable.  
Time.  
Time.  
Liar.  
Orphaned.  
Reunited.  
Gang.  
Father Time.  
Water.  
Liar.

“Sherlock, what's our next move?” Irene's voice wove into Sherlock's deductions. He broke his gaze from Mary, who had grown restless under his scrutiny. 

“Sorry...I...” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “We need to find our way to an air port to get Miss Morstan, or Miss Penny Huxleigh, off to London.”

“Hmm...Penny.” Mary tapped her chin in thought, but still wouldn't look at Sherlock. “It's different.” 

“You'll have to get used to it. You have to be Penny until you land in London. Then you can be Mary, or Margaret, or whomever you want to be.” Sherlock started to pace.

“What about us?” Irene asked as she carefully applied mascara to Mary's eyes. 

“Hm? What?” Sherlock mumbled and started pacing.

“What are you and I going to be doing?” Irene gestured to herself and him in a small sweeping motion. 

“Isn't it obvious? We need to lay low. We need to find the rest of Moriarty's web and bring it down. And we need to keep Moran here in the States so he isn't chasing Mary.” 

“Chasing me?” Mary turned her head so fast, Irene smeared her mascara. 

“He needs to stay away from London as long as possible.” Sherlock sucked in air and continued to pace.

“Sherlock, you need to settle down,” Irene said as she wiped the mascara off Mary's face. “Your head is going to explode.” 

“I won't settle until all of Moriarty's web is brought down and everyone is safe.” 

“Be careful you don't get in over your head.” 

“I think it's too late for that, Irene.” Sherlock said as he glanced at her knowingly. 

 

Irene woke to a neck ache leaning against the cold window of the car they had rented with the help of Mycroft. The gray landscape and even grayer skies alerted her to an even bigger problem. 

“Mmm...I thought we were going to the nearest airport?” She asked as she rubbed her head.

“No, I needed to think. Driving was the best way I could do that.” Sherlock glanced over at Irene, then in the rear view at Mary who was still sound asleep. “Plus you ladies needed to sleep.”

Irene looked back at Mary as well and smiled a small smile. 

“Who is she?” 

The question caught Irene by surprise and she stared at Sherlock, trying to assess his meaning. He glanced over at her. 

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Who is she? How did you meet her?” 

“You can't figure that out for yourself? The great Sherlock Holmes?” Irene smirked at him. 

He threw her a cold look. 

“I know that she is an orphan and a guardian of sorts. She is a cat person, she was daddy's girl before something happened to her father. They were reunited and they lived in India for a portion of their lives and she has a tattoo behind her left ear of a Buddha. That is what I know. I want to know your relationship with her.” 

“Why?” Irene licked her lips as she brought a leg underneath her. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say some thing, but instantly closed it. He was used to having his motives questioned. But now he wasn't even sure about his motives himself. 

“Huh, genius detective, stumped by a beautiful woman, again.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked at him. 

He furrowed his brow as he glanced at her. 

“I'm not stumped. Relationships are not my forte. You know that, Mycroft knows that, John knows that,” he cut himself off. 

'You Machine...Friends protect people...' John's voice floated through his head.

“Does John know how much you care for him? About him? Do any of your 'friends' know?” Irene asked. “I have the feeling they don't. I wonder if they have ever expressed themselves to you, and you completely misunderstood their meanings.” 

“This isn't about me, it's about Mary and how you and her became friends.” Sherlock tightened his grip on the wheel. 

“Oh, we are back to Mary.” 

Sherlock was silent as he concentrated on the road. 

Irene shook her head. “Mary had walked into The Nightingale on the arm of a very handsome business man who wanted a certain package for a weekend. I told him that I normally don't customize our packages, but he paid good money, and I made the exception. She was wearing a brunette wig, and looking very sweet and very demure. But there was something in her smile, or the way she looked at me that told me that she was not happy to be with that man. She caught my eye and I watched her the whole time I was registering them.”

Mary shuffled in the backseat and they both glanced at her as she settled into a comfortable position. 

“Anyway, I was having tea with one of my usual clients in one of the rooms I have...had set up for public breakfast and tea times. It was early morning, probably about two-thirty or three, and I heard footsteps out in the hall; I saw her run past the entrance, then she came back. She stood at the entrance breathing heavily and crying. My client excused himself. I walked up to her and she started talking really fast under breath about how she did it in self-defense and she didn't mean to kill him. That's where I stopped her chatter and told her to lead me to the room where they were staying. The man was draped across the king size bed, a bullet through his brain, and no gun in sight.” 

Irene drew in a deep breath as Sherlock glanced at her and she continued.

“Naturally I asked her what she saw and her circumstances. She said that he was like that when she walked in and that she had only gone to grab snacks and some ice. I asked her why they didn't just order up for those items. She responded that they were taking a break from their role playing. That sent up many red flags in my head. I asked her if he had any phone calls or texts before he suggested the break. She was so panicked she couldn't answer, so I called the police. I know someone on the force who would keep everything quiet. But I had warned Mary they were going to ask questions. She said she had nothing to hide, but she had no where to go after everything was said and done. I am a sucker for hard cases, and pretty faces.”

“Did the police look in the ice machine for the gun?”

“Excuse me?” Irene was caught off guard by his question.

“The gun?” Sherlock repeated. “Was it in the ice machine?”

The woman furrowed her brow and tapped her chin with her finger in deep thought. 

“No, they never found the gun.” 

Sherlock stayed silent for a beat.

“I thought it would be smarter to send her from a small airport, into JFK airport.”

“I have tried to follow your logic, but I am tired and my livelihood just got blown up, so I am happy to let you call the shots, for now.” Irene sighed and settled back into her seat and watched as fields and rolling hills zoomed by. “Where are we anyway?” 

“Somewhere in Pennsylvania.” 

Irene looked at Sherlock and opened her mouth to say something, but thought twice about it. 

Sherlock simply smirked. 

 

 

“I will miss you Irene,” Mary said as she hugged the woman two hours later. 

“Yes, well, I will too.” Irene tried to convince herself not to become attached to the poor little rich girl she took under her wing. After the lesson that Sherlock taught her about foolish love and sentiment, she thought she would have learned. 

“Take care and I am sure Sherlock will have a way we can keep in touch.” Mary's smile was still pretty, hidden under the deep red lipstick and black wig she had on. 

“I'm sure he will.” Irene said as she glanced over at the man. He approached them talking on a mobile and both Mary and Irene looked at each other with brows furrowed. 

“Who are you talking to?” Irene asked as he hung up.

“I have your flights confirmed Mary. There will be someone in London waiting to fetch you. They will be using your given name, so look for that.” Sherlock explained.

“Okay, will I see you guys again?” Mary looked from one to the other as Irene and Sherlock glanced at each other. 

“Oh bloody hell! I'm just going to get on this plane and start a new life in London.” Mary pursed her lips and stormed off toward security. 

'I hope you do, Mary.' Sherlock thought as he watched her go. 

“Let's go before I get teary.” Irene turned, but not before giving Mary a small smile that the other returned.


End file.
